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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


duc^A 


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'/  //-///^ 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2010  witli  funding  from 

University  of  Nortli  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/initialexperiencOOking 


WORKS  OF 


Under  Fire.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  ;fi.2S. 

The  Coi-onkl's  Daughter.    Illustrated.    Cloth,  ^1.35. 

Marian's  Faith.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  ;gi. 25. 

Captain  Blake.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

Foes  in  Ambush.    Cloth,  $1.25. 

Kitty's  Conquest.    Cloth,  $1.00. 

Starlight  Ranch,  and  Other  Stories.    Cloth,  ;Ji.oo. 

Laramie;  or.  The  Queen  of  Bedlam.    Cloth,  Ji. 00. 

The  Deserter,  and  From  The  Ranks.    Cloth,  $1.00. 

Two  Soldiers,  and  Dunraven  Ranch.    Cloth,  ]Ji  00. 

A  Soldier's  Secret,  and  An  Army  Portia.     Cloth, 

$1.00. 
Waring's  Peril.     Cloth,  ^i.oo. 

Editor  of 

Thb    Colonel's    Christmas    Dinner,    and    Other 

Stories.     Cloth,  $1.25. 
An  Initial  Experience,  and  Other  Stories.    Cloth, 

^i.oo. 

For  sale  by  all  Booksellers. 
J    B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  Publishers, 

Philadelphia. 


AN 


INITIAL  EXPERIENCE 


AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


EDITED  BY 

CAPT.  CHARLES   KING. 


Philadelphia: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 

1895. 


Copyright,  1894, 

BY 

J.  B.  LiPPiNCOTT  Company. 


Printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia. 


CONTENTS. 


PA6B 

An  Initial  Experience 5 

By  Captain  Charles  King,  U.  S.  Army. 

In  the  "  Never  Never  Country" 15 

By  R.  Monckton-Dene,  Acting  Hospital  Steward  U.   S. 
Army. 

The  Siren  of  Three-Mile  Bend 72 

By  R.  Monckton-Dene,  Acting  Hospital   Steward   U.   S. 
Army. 

The  Lost  Pine  Mine 104 

By  Alvin  Sydenham,,  Lieutenant  U.  S.  Army. 

Private  Jones  of  the  Eighth;  or,  A  Military  Mesalliance  113 
By  R.  Monckton-Dene,  Acting  Hospital  Steward  U.  S. 
Army. 

Jack  Hilton's  Love-Affair 146 

By  T.  H.  Farnham. 

Wauna,  the  Witch-Maiden 174 

By  Alvin  Sydenham,,  Lieutenant  U.  S.  Army. 

Conyngham  Foxe  and  the  Charity  Ball 188 

By  Alvin  Sydenham,  Lieutenant  U.  S.  Army. 

The  Soldier's  Aid  Society 207 

By  Caroline  Frances  Little. 

A  Pitiful  Surrender 215 

By  John  P.  IVisser,  First  Lieutenant  U.  S.  Army. 

The  Story  of  a  Recruit 232 

By  D.  Robinson,  Captain  U.  S.  Army. 

Chronicles  of  Carter  Barracks 241 

By  H.  W,  Closson,  Colonel  U.  S,  Army. 

I 


INTRODUCTION. 


Fifteen  years  ago  there  were  no  soldier  stories — so  far 
as  the  regulars  were  concerned.  War  literature  was  abun- 
dant :  hosts  of  tales,  long  and  short,  good,  bad,  and  indif- 
ferent, had  been  told  and  were  in  active  circulation  regarding 
the  volunteers  and  their  stirring  service  during  the  four 
years'  struggle  ;  but  of  the  life  and  doings  of  the  soldier  of 
the  little  standing  army — either  during  the  days  of  the  Re- 
bellion or  the  still  more  hazardous  and  trying  times  on  the 
Indian  frontier,  the  people  knew  next  to  nothing.  Just  why 
this  should  have  been  so,  it  is  hard  to  say.  With  such  rich 
mine  of  experiences  to  draw  upon,  with  men  to  paint  the 
scenes  who  had  been  both  actor  and  artist  in  the  field, 
there  were  still  no  pictures  of  our  bluecoats  on  the  border. 
Then,  one  by  one  the  "  professionals"  began  to  take  up  the 
pen,  and  in  the  columns  of  military  periodicals  to  tell  of 
scenes  and  deeds  whereof  the  public  had  never  heard.  Soon 
these  began  to  find  their  way  into  framing  of  their  own  and 
be  offered  in  open  market,  and  lo  !  the  reading  public  bid  for 
more,  and  others  came,  and  brush  was  added  to  pen,  and 
artists  like  Remington  and  Zogbaum  illumined  the  pages  of 
the  great  weeklies  and  the  magazines  with  vivid  scenes  from 
our  life  on  the  plains.    And  still  old  soldiers  said  that  better 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

yarns  were  spun  around  the  camp  fires  than  found  their 
way  into  the  papers,  and  young  soldiers  began  to  tell  them 
in  print.  One  of  these,  all  too  soon,  at  the  outset  of  what 
promised  to  be  a  brilliant — what  was  sure  to  be  an  honored 
career,  was  taken  from  the  ranks  to  join  an  immortal  host, 
and  one  of  the  last  stories  from  his  gifted  pen,  grouped  with 
these  camp-fire  talks  of  older  and  graver  heads,  the  pub- 
lisher has  chosen  from  among  the  many  soldier  tales  now 
told  on  every  side,  and  in  this  little  volume  commends  them, 
one  and  all,  to  the  reader. 


AN  INITIAL  EXPERIENCE. 

Next  to  his  first  battle,  I  know  of  nothing  that  more 
deeply  impresses  a  young  soldier  than  his  first  night  march. 
Out  of  the  chaos  and  confusion  that  followed  Bull  Run-the- 
First,  came  the  order,  organization,  and  discipline  intro- 
duced by  McClellan.  We  had  had  weeks  of  daily  drill  and 
parade  in  the  camps  around  the  Capital.  We  had  seen  our 
brigade  swelled  into  the  proportions  of  a  division  by  the 
successive  addition  of  the  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  Massa- 
chusetts, the  Seventy-ninth  Highlanders  of  New  York,  the 
Second  Fire  Zouaves,  and  the  Thirty-second  Pennsylvania. 
We  were,  or  thought  we  were,  a  rousing  big  brigade 
before,  and  prided  ourselves  on  being  the  only  real  Western 
brigade  around  Washington  ;  for,  when  ordered  into  camp 
back  of  the  old  Porter  mansion  on  Kalorama  Heights,  our 
Second  Wisconsin — ragged  "  veterans"  of  the  first  battle — 
were  reinforced  by  the  Fifth  and  Sixth  from  our  own  State, 
and  Sol  Meredith's  Nineteenth  Indiana,  all  "cram  full," 
as  we  said,  of  enthusiastic  Westerners,  with  a  Wisconsin 
West  Pointer  for  our  brigadier.  The  Massachusetts  and 
Pennsylvania  men,  with  the  Fire  Zouaves,  remained  with 
us  only  until  after  McClellan' s  first  review  ;  but  we  still  had 
five  full  regiments  when  the  chilly  nights  of  late  August 
made  our  sentries'  noses  and  fingers  tingle,  and  I  had 
dropped  the  drumsticks  to  go  on  permanent  duty  as  orderly 
at  brigade  head-quarters,  a  promotion  which  to  any  juvenile 
mind  carried  with  it  the  rank  and  more  than  the  emoluments 
of  a  volunteer  aid,  I  doubt  if  ever  before  the  functions  of 
brigade  orderly  were  clothed  by  the  incumbent  with  greater 
importance — or  ever  since.  It  led  me  into  blunders  which, 
superadded  to  the  bumptiousness  of  boyhood,  came  near 
putting  an  end  to  what  I  honestly  believed  was  the  dawning 
of  a  brilliant  military  career  ;  as,  for  instance,  when  I  thought 
the  patrol  of  regulars  had  no  business  to  try  to  halt  me  when 

I*  5 


6  AN   INITIAL    EXPERIENCE. 

I  was  galloping  through  Georgetown  with  despatches  for  the 
general-in-chief ;  or  when,  resenting  certain  chaffing  allu- 
sions by  Baldy  Smith's  Vermonters,  at  Chain  Bridge,  to  the 
diminutive  size  of  the  Wisconsin  orderly,  I  said  opprobrious 
things  to  one  of  their  number,  whose  principles  were  as 
fixed  as  his  bayonet,  for,  all  unsuspected,  he  was  a  sentry 
regularly  posted  as  such,  and,  very  properly,  wouldn't  per- 
mit in  his  presence  a  violation  of  that  particular  one  of  the 
Army  Regulations  which  provided  that  all  sentries  must  be 
treated  with  respect  by  all  parties  whomsoever.  He  gave 
me  the  choice  of  swallowing  my  words  or  that  bayonet,  and 
one  or  the  other  it  would  have  had  to  be  but  for  the  coming 
of  an  officer  of  the  guard,  who  held  that  the  sentry  was  the 
first  offender.  The  Vermonters  were  armed  with  the  Enfield 
rifle  in  those  days,  and  I  have  hated  the  sight  of  the  Enfield 
bayonet  ever  since. 

These  were  the  few  disagreeable  features  of  the  duty.  Its 
prides  and  pleasures  were  many.  It  was  wonderful,  it  was 
thrilling,  one  lovely  evening  in  the  early  autumn,  to  listen 
to  the  clicking  of  the  telegraph  instrument  in  the  office  of 
the  assistant  adjutant-general,  to  watch  the  eager  light  on 
the  face  of  the  operator,  and  the  expectant  look  on  those 
of  the  officers  close  at  hand,  and  then  to  hear  the  low  voice 
of  the  general  as  he  read  the  pencilled  despatch  directing 
him  to  hold  his  brigade  in  readiness  to  march  at  a  moment's 
notice — no  one  could  say  whither.  Further  telegraphing  I 
there  was,  to  and  fro,  and  intimation  that  there  was  no  need  I 
of  keeping  the  men  in  ranks,  or  even  "sleeping  on  their  | 
arms."  In  those  early  days  of  the  war  many  officials  ' 
thought  it  necessary  to  warn  commands  to  be  ready  at  a 
moment's  notice,  when  an  hour's  would  have  been  amplyODr 
sufficient.  Perhaps  it  was  necessary,  but  we  Badgers  were  -  ^ 
eager  to  move,  and  didn't  think  such  precaution  called  for.|M|f»f 

Tattoo  sounded  as  usual.  The  staff-officers  had  per-  - 
sonally  notified  the  five  regimental  commanders,  but  pretty 
much  everybody  turned  in  for  a  night's  rest,  leaving  camp 
to  the  care  of  the  guards.  The  belief  seemed  to  be  general 
that  marching  orders  would  not  come  before  reveille,  if  they 
did  then.  Even  at  head-quarters,  at  the  old  mansion  afore- 
mentioned, the  general  and  the  staff  turned  in,  leaving  the 
operator  to  doze  at  his  desk,  held  there  by  some  mysteri- 

m 


AN   INITIAL   EXPERIENCE.  7 

ous  "tip,"  and  the  orderly  to  toss  and  roll,  wide-eyed, 
upon  his  blankets  on  the  portico  without.  The  long  Vene- 
tian windows  stood  open  to  admit  the  fresh  night  air  ;  the 
sentry  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  starlit  walk  in  front  ;  beyond 
and  beneath  him  stretched  the  dim  night-lights  of  Washing- 
ton, and  not  a  sound  but  his  crunching  heel  on  the  gravel 
broke  the  solemn  stillness,  until,  all  of  a  sudden,  towards 
twelve  o'clock,  the  instrument  and  the  operator  woke  up 
together.     As  for  the  orderly,  he  hadn't  been  asleep  at  all. 

I  cannot  now  recall  the  precise  words  of  that  midnight 
order.  It  was  brief  and  to  the  point,  however.  It  directed 
the  brigade  to  move  at  once  to  the  support  of  General  W. 
F.  Smith's  command  then  crossing  the  Chain  Bridge  up  the 
Potomac,  with  the  object  of  seizing  the  heights  on  the  Vir- 
ginia shore.  It  must  be  remembered  that  at  this  time  the 
triumphant  South  had  planted  her  banner  on  Munson's 
Hill  in  full  view  of  the  Capitol,  and  that  Southern  videttes 
and  pickets  lined  the  Potomac  from  a  point  easily  in  long 
cannon-shot  of  the  spires  of  Georgetown.  Smith's  brigade, 
which  comprised,  among  others,  the  Vermonters  and  the 
Sixth  Maine,  had  been  in  camp  on  the  plateau  overlooking 
Chain  Bridge  from  the  Maryland  shore,  and,  so  we  were 
afterwards  told,  had  frequently  suffered  alarm  and  annoy- 
ance at  the  hands  of  the  active  foe  on  the  opposite  bank. 
The  heights  were  bold,  heavily  wooded,  and  commanding. 
Smith's  orders,  I  presume,  were  to  cross  at  night,  seize  and 
fortify  them.     Ours  were  to  follow  and  support. 

I  can  remember  the  general's  quiet  order  to  his  chief  of 
staff,  who  came  hurriedly  in  from  an  adjoining  room,  pencil  in 
mouth,  and  both  arms  together  working  into  his  blue  flannel 
sack  coat.  I  remember  that  while  there  was  nothing  what- 
ever in  the  order  to  say  so,  the  impression  I  got  was  that 
all  rebeldom  was  headed  for  the  south  end  of  that  bridge, 
and  all  Wisconsin,  Indiana,  and  Highlanders  to  boot,  in 
King's  Brigade  were  needed  there  to  beat  back  the  invader. 
Long  before  the  staff-officers  proper  could  mount  and 
away  on  their  mission,  I  had  bolted  out  of  the  back  door 
and  through  the  rear  court  of  the  old  southern  homestead 
and  down  the  steep  slope  into  the  dark  depths  of  the  ravine 
that  interposed  between  head-quarters  and  the  regimental 
camps,  and  then  went  panting  up  the  opposite  rise,  to  meet 


8  AN   INITIAL   EXPERIENCE. 

the  challenge  of  the  first  sentry, — a  boy  from  my  own  town 
and  school  of  years  before ;  and  so  eager  was  he  over  the 
glorious  news  I  was  so  unsoldierly  as  to  tell  him,  as  he  recog- 
nized and  let  me  pass,  that  he  shouted  after  me  through  the 
chill  starlight,  "Say  !  for  God's  sake  get  me  off  post  so't 
I  can  go  too."  I  ran  straight  to  the  colonel's  tent, — Cobb, 
of  the  Fifth  Wisconsin, — and  he  was  napping  like  a  weasel, 
and  out  of  his  bunk  before  I  was  out  of  hearing.  "Tell  the 
drum-major  to  have  the  long  roll  sounded,  will  you?"  said 
he  as  I  sped  away  to  rouse  the  next  command.  It  couldn't 
have  been  two  minutes  before  every  drummer  in  the  Fifth 
was  battering  away  at  his  sheepskin,  while  I  tore  on  through 
the  camp  of  the  Sixth  and  then  up  the  Georgetown  road  to 
the  more  distant  post  of  the  Highlanders,  the  drums  of  the 
Second  Wisconsin  and  the  Nineteenth  Indiana  already  swell- 
ing the  chorus  of  their  fellows  in  the  Fifth.  This  was  the 
accepted  method  of  the  first  days  of  the  war,  and  was  con- 
sidered very  swell  and  soldierly  then,  though  the  system  re- 
mained but  a  brief  time  unmodified.  I  had  run  nearly  half  a 
mile,  and  had  enjoyed  every  inch  of  my  way,  and  every 
atom  of  my  vicarious  importance  before  the  first  check  came. 
This  was  at  the  guarded  tent  of  the  new  colonel  of  the  stal- 
wart Seventy-ninth, — grim,  gifted,  old  "Ike"  Stevens,  he 
who  died  so  gloriously  at  Chantilly,  with  Phil  Kearny,  a  year 
later.  Stevens  was  new  to  the  brigade,  but  old  to  the  busi- 
ness. The  Seventy-ninth  had  lost  their  colonel  at  Bull  Run 
and  their  heads  soon  after,  owing  to  some  misunderstanding 
among  the  men  as  to  the  terms  of  their  enlistment.  There 
had  been  temporary  deprivation  of  arms  and  colors,  a  court- 
martial  of  the  ringleaders,  a  sharp  admonition,  and  then, 
having  learned  a  valuable  lesson,  the  regiment  was  ready 
for  serious  work  again,  and  an  experienced  soldier  was  put 
at  their  head  by  way  of  preventing  their  losing  it  next  time; 
and  this  new  colonel  knew  not  the  diminutive  orderly  pala- 
vering out  there  in  the  dark  with  a  six-foot-two  sentry  in 
vain  endeavor  to  persuade  him  to  rouse  his  chief  if  the 
countersign  wasn't  sufficient  to  satisfy  him  the  messenger 
came  properly  vouched  for.  What  the  colonel  did  know 
was  that  no  small  boy  had  any  right  raising  such  a  big  row 
about  his  tent,  and  he  came  out  in  deep  exasperation — and 
night  shirt, — and,  despite  the  distant  thunder  of  the  drums  in 


AN  INITIAL  EXPERIENCE.  9 

the  camps  behind,  he  might  have  sent  the  orderly  to  learn 
his  lesson  at  the  guard  tent,  had  not  an  aide  trotted  up  at 
the  instant  with  orders  which  called  for  more  serious  work. 
I  had  never  met  Colonel  Stevens  before  ;  I  always  managed 
to  keep  out  of  his  way  afterwards,  fearful  that  he  might  re- 
member me  and  resume  the  pointed  remarks  he  was  making 
when  Lieutenant  Benkard,  late  of  the  New  York  Seventh, 
rode  in  to  claim  his  attention  in  the  nick  of  time. 

The  Second  and  Fifth  were  already  forming  line  as  we  re- 
turned, the  aide  gravely  admonishing  the  orderly  that  it  was 
a  case  of  too  much  zeal  and  juvenile  enthusiasm  on  the  lat- 
ter's  part,  but  I  doubt  if  he  cared  much.  The  youngster 
had  enjoyed  the  unspeakable  delight  of  rousing  the  brigade 
for  its  first  night  march. 

And  what  a  march  it  was  !  In  the  dim  starlight,  through 
the  winding,  tree-fringed  road,  down  into  the  gorge  of  Rock 
Creek,  then  up  over  the  cobblestones  through  the  quaint, 
old-fashioned  streets  of  Georgetown,  with  night-capped 
heads  popping  from  the  windows  on  every  side,  and  low, 
wondering,  awe-stricken  comments  at  the  strength  and 
numbers  of  the  command.  And  then  the  general  led  us 
out  upon  the  Aqueduct  road,  and  there  to  our  left,  vague, 
shadowy,  silent,  flowed  the  Potomac,  the  mist  already 
hovering  over  its  fast-flitting  wave.  And  all  ahead  was 
darkness,  and  all  in  rear  solemn,  disciplined  silence.  Even 
among  those  nil  admirari  scoffers  of  the  Second — they 
who,  having  borne  the  heat  and  burden  of  Bull  Run,  looked 
down  upon  their  newer  comrades  who  hadn't — there  was 
none  of  the  ribald  comment  on  matters  and  things  in  gen- 
eral, and  other  fellows'  officers  in  particular,  with  which  they 
punctuated  so  many  of  the  periods  of  their  subsequent  his- 
tory. Nobody  except  at  head  of  column  knew  just  where 
we  were  going,  and  the  mile-long  procession  tramped 
steadily  on  through  the  night,  nine  men  out  often — to  say 
nothing  of  the  orderly  boy — ready  to  bet  on  a  battle  at 
dawn. 

We  had  accompaniments  then  that  were  either  lost  or 
consolidated  in  the  more  practical  days  that  followed.  Each 
regiment  had  a  big  band,  and  one  of  them  a  vivandiere,  a 
really  gentle  and  lovable  girl  who  had  left  her  far  western 
home  to  follow  her  father  to  the  front  and  nurse  and  soothe 


lO  AN   INITIAL   EXPERIENCE. 

and  cheer  the  sick  and  wounded.  She  was  perfecdy  simple 
and  earnest  about  it  all.  She  had  as  much  faith  in  her 
value  and  importance  as  I  had  in  mine,  and  was  as  equally- 
innocent  of  the  idea  that  she  could  ever  be  very  much  in 
the  way.  She  had  two  suits  of  uniform  and  two  tents. 
She  marched  with  the  band  when  it  "trooped"  along  the 
line  at  dress  parade  wearing  all  her  jaunty  finery,  and  sat  at 
the  hospital  tents  and  read  to  the  sick,  especially  one  fine- 
looking,  dark-bearded  officer,  in  the  more  sober  but  no  less 
effective  every-day  garb.  She  occupied  one  of  her  two 
tents,  while  her  "maid,"  a  brawny  Irishwoman,  occupied 
the  other,  and  both  were  pitched  under  the  wing  of  the 
surgeon's.  And  when  we  started  on  this  march  our  vivan- 
diere  wanted  to  go,  but  our  orders  were  to  leave  camps, 
baggage,  everything  in  fact,  standing,  and  her  place,  said 
the  doctor,  was  with  the  sick.  Nevertheless,  at  one  of  the 
halts,  while  a  staff-officer  explored  the  dim  lane  ahead,  not 
knowing  which  of  two  evil  roads  to  choose,  a  rattle  of 
wheels  was  heard  over  a  stony  stretch  some  distance  back, 
and  the  titter  went  round  in  the  ranks  of  the  Second  that 
the  Fifth  had  "  sent  back  for  their  nurse,"  which  led  to  the 
remark  on  the  part  of  a  "  B"  Company  corporal  that  he 
could  lick  the  man  in  the  Second  who  started  that  lie  till 
six  nurses  couldn't  help  him.  And  then  "Attention  !"  was 
passed  down  the  column,  and  arms  went  up  to  right 
shoulder  shift  again  and  the  fight  was  declared  off  until  we 
had  settled  the  business  in  hand.  The  orderly  heard  more 
or  less  of  this  working  his  way  up  to  the  front  again  after 
an  errand  that  took  him  back  to  little  Colonel  O'Connor, 
the  new  soldier  head  of  the  ribald  Second,  who  was  to  lead 
them  into  their  next  great  fight  on  the  historic  field  near  the 
Warrenton  Pike,  and  go  down  to  his  death  with  such  appal- 
ling percentage  of  his  famous  battalion,  the  regiment  that 
was  to  win  the  proud  record  of  having  faced  the  foe  so  stub- 
bornly and  so  often  as  to  stand  foremost  in  the  army  of  the 
United  States — regular  and  volunteer  infantry — in  its  roll 
of  honor  of  officers  and  men  killed  or  mortally  wounded 
in  battle. 

Who  could  picture  what  was  to  come  as  we  tramped 
sturdily  on  that  long  September  night  ?  Somewhere  up  the 
road,  I  remember,  where  all  was  pitchy  darkness,  there 


AN   INITIAL   EXPERIENCE.  II 

came  a  sharp,  excited  challenge.  A  sentry  belonging  to  a 
guard  posted  over  some  bridge  or  field  work  didn't  propose 
to  let  that  host  run  over  him  without  knowing  who  they 
were,  and  the  whole  brigade  had  to  halt  until  a  staff-officer 
dismounted  and  went  ahead  and  gave  him  the  countersign, 
and  explained  all  about  it,  perhaps  ;  and  then  the  general 
said  a  kindly  word  to  the  sentry,  complimenting  him  on  his 
knowledge  of  sentry  duty  ;  and  the  sentry,  rejoicing,  slapped 
his  musket  butt  and  grinned,  and  said  he  guessed  the  boys 
he  trained  with  was  all  pretty  much  up  to  snuif.  And  this 
point  being  good-humoredly  conceded,  the  column  again 
trudged  on.  And  then  another  "  picket,"  about  a  hundred 
yards  ahead,  concluded  he'd  interview  us  too.  And  this 
sort  of  thing  becoming  monotonous,  the  general  told  old 
Colonel  Cutler,  commanding  the  Sixth  Wisconsin,  which 
led  the  brigade,  to  send  a  lieutenant  with  some  men  ahead 
as  a  sort  of  avant  courier,  and  my  veteran  townsman, 
Herr  Schumacher,  a  gallant  German  soldier  and  American 
citizen,  pushed  out  with  a  half  platoon,  and  did  the  inter- 
viewing,— first  man  of  the  Western  brigade  to  reach  the 
Vermont  picket  at  the  dim  and  ghostly  bridge,  and  to  lead 
us  into  its  dark,  cavernous  mouth  ;  one  of  the  first  of  his 
gallant  regiment  to  win  promotion  to  a  major's  leaves,  and 
iall,  face  to  the  foe,  while  they  were  still  new  and  glistening. 
Behind  the  statuesque  Vermonters  a  group  of  anxious 
women  were  eagerly  questioning.  There  had  been  firing 
across  the  stream  when  Smith's  advance  pushed  through. 
"  They  say  Jim  Tennant's  shot,"  was  their  cry.  And,  just 
as  the  foremost  of  our  staff,  following  the  beautiful  gray 
mare  that  bore  the  general,  rode  out  from  beneath  the 
wooden  roof  of  the  quaint  old  bridge,  there  came  low  sum- 
mons from  the  front :  "  Open  out !  Let  this  party  through," 
and  a  squad  of  soldiers,  stretcher-bearing,  swung  silently 
by,  a  muffled  form  writhing  in  their  midst.  The  Vermont 
general's  guide  was  the  first  victim  of  the  night  advance. 
The  orderly  had  across  his  shoulder  a  little  '  *  Volcanic' '  rifle, 
— the  pigmy  progenitor  of  the  Winchester  of  to-day, — a 
thing  that  fired  a  bullet  the  size  of  a  marrowfat  from  one 
end,  and  singed  off  your  eyebrows  at  the  other  owing  to 
some  imperfection  in  the  gas-check,  a  thing  he  lent  to  every- 
body who  wanted  to  try  it,  secure  in  the  conviction  that  he 


12  AN   INITIAL    EXPERIENCE. 

wouldn't  want  it  again.  But  after  poor  Tennant  was  borne 
by,  and  we  pushed  on  up  the  rocky  sides  of  Pimet  Run,  up 
the  winding  ascent  to  the  heights  where  next  day  the  Hues 
of  Forts  Ethan  Allen  and  Marcy  were  staked,  the  orderly 
thought  he  might  really  have  to  pull  that  trigger  again. 

Half  an  hour  of  stumbling  and  alternate  challenge,  halt, 
and  push  ahead,  and  at  last  we  emerged  from  under  the  trees 
into  the  open  starlight  again,  upon  some  high  ground, 
where  dim,  shadowy  horsemen  were  huddled,  and  long  Hues 
of  infantry  faded  away  into  darkness  at  front  and  flank,  and 
the  general  in  support  announced  his  presence  to  the  general 
on  the  spot,  and  then  it  became  a  question  what  on  earth 
to  do  with  all  these  men.  Far  to  the  east  the  morning 
star  was  shining  on  the  upper  fringe  of  the  russet  dawn. 
We  had  come  for  all  we  were  worth,  expectant  of  a  fight, 
but  the  Vermont  general  was  saying  to  his  Wisconsin  com- 
rade that  there  didn't  seem  to  be  enough  for  both  to  do, 
and  certainly,  by  inference,  no  room  for  two.  He  would 
like  to  have  the  support  of  the  new  brigade  provided  places 
could  be  found  for  them  to  camp,  and  places,  temporary  at 
least,  were  found  for  all  but  the  Sixth  Wisconsin,  which  re- 
traced its  steps  to  the  north  shore  again,  and  went  into  camp 
along  what  was  known  as  the  "Upper  Road,"  some  five 
hundred  yards  back  from  the  river  bank.  And  here,  too, 
were  pitched  the  tents  of  the  general  and  staff".  And  here, 
for  several  days,  we  stayed  with  nothing  beyond  an  occa- 
sional "affair  of  outposts"  at  the  front  to  excite  us,  while 
the  powers  that  were  went  on  with  the  duty  of  fortifying 
those  Virginia  heights,  and  then  of  reinforcing  the  fortifiers, 
for  more  troops  began  coming,  one  of  the  first  regiments 
to  arrive  being  the  so-called  "California,"  which  was  re- 
cruited East,  but  credited  to  the  Pacific  slope,  which  was 
commanded  by  the  President's  old-time  friend.  Colonel 
(erstwhile  Senator)  E.  D.  Baker  ;  and,  by  one  of  those  strange 
freaks  of  military  life,  Colonel  Baker  was  ordered  to  report 
with  his  command  to  Colonel  I.  I.  Stevens,  his  long-time 
personal  and  political  opponent,  if  not  open  enemy.  Mr, 
Lincoln  was  quick  to  hear  of  and  see  this,  and  straightway 
settled  things  by  promoting  Stevens  a  brigadier  and  sending 
him  elsewhere. 

All  the  same,  there  was  only  one  brigade  organized  at  the 


AN  INITIAL  EXPERIENCE.  I3 

Virginia  end  of  the  bridge,  and  men  enough  were  there  for 
three.  It  was  then  that  there  came  to  us  one  whose  name 
was  soon  on  every  tongue, — the  soldier  who  was  pronounced 
'  *  superb  to-day'  *  at  Gettysburg,  and  who  rose  to  be  a 
model  corps  commander  in  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Union, 
and  to  die  long  years  after  the  war,  a  ' '  favorite' '  for  the 
Presidency  and  the  acknowledged  head  of  the  Military 
Order  of  the  Loyal  Legion. 

And  with  his  coming  came  one  of  the  proudest  days  of 
the  orderly's  life.  It  had  been  storming  hard;  the  mud 
was  deep,  the  roads  were  mire,  the  skies  were  floods,  and  I 
was  alone  at  head-quarters.  Our  general  had  gone  in  to 
Washington  on  duty,  taking  some  of  the  staff  with  him.  The 
others  had  gone  to  visit  the  camp  of  the  Sixth  Wisconsin, 
and  down  the  ' '  upper  road' '  there  presently  appeared  a 
long  column  of  bedraggled  blue  infantry.  Away  from 
their  front  came  galloping  two  horsemen,  wrapped  in  rub- 
ber overcoats  and  dripping  with  rain,  and  these  headed 
straight  for  our  tents,  whence  even  the  sentry  had  been 
withdrawn.  I  had  seen  some  of  the  famous  men  of  the 
old  Army, — Scott,  Harney,  Sidney  Johnston,  and  C.  F. 
Smith, — superb-looking  soldiers  when  in  their  prime  and 
long  after,  but  the  leader  of  these  two  was  mate  for  the  best 
of  them.  He  rode  admirably  and  with  the  seat  even  then 
I  knew  to  be  West  Point,  and  he  rode  straight  to  our  tent, 
and  reined  up  as  the  youngster  in  Zouave  rig  rose  and 
saluted  him. 

His  first  inquiry  was  for  the  general,  and  was  told  he  was 
gone  to  Washington.  * '  Any  of  the  staff  here  ?' '  was  the 
next,  and,  in  all  the  valorous  importance  of  sixteen  years  and 
five  feet  nothing,  the  orderly  answered,  "Yes,  sir, — I  am  ;" 
and  the  handsome  rider  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
laugh,  though  his  lips  twitched  under  his  brown  moustache. 
' '  Well,  I  was  told  to  apply  here  for  a  guide  to  General 
Smith's  position  across  the  river,"  said  he,  as  though 
doubtful  now  of  getting  one,  and  he  looked  pleased  when 
the  youngster  said,  "All  right,  sir;  I'll  go  with  you  at 
once,"  led  out  his  own  horse,  mounted,  and  pointed  to  a 
pathway  across  the  storm-swept  plateau  where  the  Sibley 
tents  of  the  Sixth  Maine  were  still  standing.  "If  you'll 
turn  the  head  of  column  off  there,  sir,  we  can  save  a  mile. 


14  AN  INITIAL  EXPERIENCE. 

The  wagons'U  have  to  follow  round  by  the  road,"  said  he, 
and  the  tall  officer  sent  an  order  accordingly.  Presently 
he  and  his  guide  were  riding  side  by  side  in  the  lead  of  the 
long,  light-blue  snake  that  came  curving  and  crawling  after 
them  over  the  miry  way, — two  big,  brand-new  regiments  of 
Pennsylvanians.  Down  the  steep  ramp  at  the  brow  of  the 
bluff  went  the  oddly  matched  pair,  the  few  staff-officers 
following,  the  leading  regiment  close  behind,  and  every 
now  and  then  the  tall  general  turned  and  took  a  curious 
look  at  the  orderly,  and  presently  began  asking  questions 
as  to  how  he  came  to  be  in  service  at  so  early  an  age,  where 
he  was  from,  etc.  One  question  led  to  another,  the  general 
finally  flattering  the  boy  with  the  statement  that,  in  his 
opinion,  he  was  cut  out  for  a  soldier  and  ought  to  go  to  West 
Point, — and  that  was  and  had  been  for  years  the  dearest 
wish  of  the  youngster's  heart;  he  was  even  then  impor- 
tuning the  great  War  President  to  promise  him  one  of  the 
next  ten  appointments  "at  large,"  and  this  the  tall,  hand- 
some general  said  he  was  glad  to  hear.  They  had  threaded 
their  way  through  the  Virginia  woods  by  this  time,  and 
were  close  to  General  Smith's  head-quarters,  and  there,  be- 
fore reporting  his  arrival,  did  the  newcomer  turn  and  offer 
his  gauntleted  hand  to  the  little  fellow,  and  thank  him  for 
the  service  rendered,  and  say,  "  Now,  my  lad,  I  shan't  for- 
get you  or  the  talk  we've  had.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you 
some  day  in  getting  what  you  want,  and  if  I  can  you  let 
me  know.     My  name's  Hancock." 

And  in  less  than  two  years  after,  the  same  tall  soldier,  a 
national  hero  by  that  time,  famous  for  his  services  on  every 
field  where  fought  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  doubly  famous 
for  Gettysburg,  from  whose  wounds  he  was  just  recuper- 
ating, rose  stiffly  and  slowly  from  the  sofa  where  he  sat,  sur- 
rounded by  a  throng  of  admiring  men  and  women,  in  the 
parlor  of  Cozzens'  Hotel,  to  welcome  a  small-sized  cadet 
who,  in  the  glory  of  his  first  pair  of  chevrons,  had  come 
somewhat  timidly  to  pay  his  respects,  and  he  took  the 
youngster  by  the  hand,  and  introduced  him  to  the  assem- 
bled party  as  "My  young  veteran, — my  guide  the  first 
time  I  crossed  the  Potomac  at  the  head  of  my  brigade." 
And  small  wonder  was  it  that  the  "young  veteran"  well- 
nigh  worshipped  Hancock  from  that  time  on. 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY."* 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  KIMBERLEY  GOLD-FIELDS. 


The  blazing  sun  of  the  tropics  pours  down  nis  fierce 
rays  on  the  arid  region  that  hes  between  the  upper  waters 
of  the  Fitzroy  and  Ord  Rivers,  in  the  Kimberley  district 
of  Northwestern  AustraUa,  and  the  barren,  treeless  waste 
quivers  in  a  haze  of  furnace-like  heat. 

Strewn  about  the  sandy  plain  are  huge  jagged-edged 
granitic  boulders,  remnants  of  a  mighty  mountain  of  stone 
riven  into  ten  thousand  fantastic  fragments  by  some  terrific 
convulsion  of  Nature  in  prehistoric  times. 

The  monotonous  sienna  tint  of  the  landscape  fades  into 
the  shimmering  purple  of  immeasurable  distance,  unrelieved 
by  a  vestige  of  vegetation,  save  where  a  few  parched  leaves 
still  cling  to  the  living  limb  of  a  solitary  lightning-stricken 

*  The  "Never  Never  Country"  is  a  bush  term  applied  to  all  that 
practically  unknown  portion  of  Australia  lying  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  remotest  settlements.  It  obtained  its  curious  name  from  an  old 
bush  song,  writh  the  frequent  and  suggestive  refrain, — 

"  If  you  once  get  there, 
You'll  never  come  back,  never  come  back," — 

the  truth  of  which  has  been  but  too  often  verified. 

The  "  Never  Never  Country"  has  always  been  a  land  of  promise  to 
the  venturous  pioneer  spirits  of  Australia,  who  still  seek  to  find  new  El 
Dorados  within  its  trackless  solitudes,  and  the  bones  of  many  a  fearless 
bushman  lie  bleaching  on  its  desert  wastes.  In  my  early  youth  the 
whole  of  the  northern  portion  of  Australia  west  of  the  one  hundred  and 
forty-fifth  meridian  was  known  as  the  "  Never  Never  Country"  and  was 
thought  to  be  a  hopeless  desert.  Now  the  foot-falls  of  the  white  man 
echo  along  the  border  of  the  Northern  Territory  from  the  Gulf  of  Car- 
pentaria to  the  boundary  of  South  Australia,  and  the  "Never  Never 
Country"  will  soon  become  nothing  but  a  legend  of  the  bush.  It  is  at 
present  limited  to  the  unknown  districts  of  Western  Australia  and  the 
Northern  Territory. 

15 


1 6  IN  THE    "never   never   COUNTRY." 

gum  that  rears  its  gaunt  and  withered  arms  to  the  sky,  as 
if  in  supplication  for  deUverance  from  such  a  scene  of 
hideous  desolation. 

The  eye  searches  in  vain  for  some  sign  of  life  ;  no  living 
thing  is  to  be  seen ;  a  tomb-like  silence  broods  over  the 
illimitable  expanse.  It  is  only  when  the  sun  goes  down 
that  Nature  awakes  from  her  noontide  torpor  ;  then  the 
bush  resounds  with  the  varied  noises  of  an  exuberant  life. 
In  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  moonlight  the  great  jagged- 
edged  boulders  of  the  plain  assume  weird  and  ghostly 
gnome-like  shapes  seemingly  instinct  with  life  and  motion  ; 
noxious  creeping  things  crawl  forth  from  noisome  nooks ; 
huge  bats — noiseless  winged  phantoms  of  the  night — flit  to 
and  fro  in  the  spectral  shadows  of  the  rocks  ;  mysterious 
sounds  echo  in  the  vast  profound  of  the  desert,  and  at 
times  the  long-drawn  melancholy  cry  of  some  night-bird 
quavers  down  the  passing  breeze  like  the  wail  of  a  lost 
spirit  condemned  to  haunt  the  frightful  solitudes  of  the 
place. 

Far  away  to  the  southward  the  dead  level  of  the  plain  is 
broken  by  a  range  of  lofty  hills.  To  these  we  must  journey 
to  find  the  scene  of  our  story. 

Imagine  a  gigantic  winding  fissure  some  three  miles  in 
length  by  a  furlong  in  width  running  through  the  heart  of 
the  mountains.  One  side  of  the  canon-like  cleft  is  a  sheer 
smooth  wall  of  dark  bluish -gray  stone  a  thousand  feet  in 
height,  washed  at  its  base  by  a  small  creek  of  clear  cold 
water,  in  whose  limpid  bosom  the  frowning  face  of  the 
mighty  precipice  is  mirrored. 

The  other  side  is  but  half  the  height  of  the  first,  and 
rises  from  the  sandy  bed  in  a  succession  of  plateaus  or  ter- 
races broken  in  continuity  by  enormous  rents  and  chasms 
yawning  darkly  in  the  face  of  the  rock,  while  at  the  sharp 
projecting  corners,  in  the  sinuosities  of  the  gorge,  great 
pinnacled  points  of  craggy  beetling  cliffs  and  curiously 
smooth  dome-shaped  masses  of  rock,  clothed  in  varying 
hues  of  sombre  gray,  are  outlined  in  fantastic  contour 
against  the  sky. 

Throughout  unnumbered  ages  this  savage  gorge  had 
echoed  only  to  the  gibbering  cachinnations  of  the  laughing 
jackass  as  he  flew  from  crag  to  crag  in  the  rocky  defile,  but 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  I7 

now  its  hollow  abysses  resound  with  the  hum  of  human 
voices,  and  the  metallic  clang  of  the  pick,  the  rattle  and 
click  of  the  sifting-cradle  and  the  washing-dish  daily 
reverberate  within  its  cavernous  depths. 

Two  years  ago  five  bold  prospectors  pushing  southward 
from  the  gold-fields  of  the  Kimberley,  under  the  leadership 
of  one  Henry  Harte,  penetrated  the  frightful  desert  that 
guards  the  approach  to  the  mountains  from  the  north  and 
discovered  that  the  red  sands  of  the  gorge  contained  gold. 
They  thought  they  were  the  first  to  search  for  the  treasures 
hidden  in  these  lonely  mountains,  until  in  a  sheltered  angle 
of  the  canon  they  found  a  human  skeleton.  The  body  that 
once  contained  these  whitening  bones  had  long  since  crum- 
bled into  the  primal  dust ;  only  the  more  durable  portions 
of  its  clothing  had  survived  the  ravages  of  time.  The 
fleshless  tibiae  were  still  encased  in  a  stout  pair  of  miner's 
boots,  and  a  cabbage-palm  hat  sat  rakishly  on  the  smooth 
and  polished  dome  of  the  skull,  giving  to  the  grewsome 
thing  an  appearance  that  was  hideously  grotesque.  Close 
by,  half  buried  in  the  debris,  lay  a  miner's  pick,  a  tin  quart 
pot,  transformed  into  a  sieve  by  numerous  rust-worn  holes, 
and  other  articles  of  a  prospector's  outfit.  Near  the  skele- 
ton's right  hand  a  time-worn  leathern  pouch,  such  as  miners 
usually  carry  on  their  belts,  lay  rotting  in  the  sand,  and 
from  its  bursting  seams  a  golden  stream  of  yellow  dust  had 
poured  out  upon  the  ground.  For  this  yellow  dust  the 
unknown,  whose  bones  lay  bleaching  in  the  glare  of  the 
blazing  tropic  days,  had  braved  the  dangers  of  the  desert ; 
to  gather  this  shining  heap  of  gold  he  had  dwelt  months  in 
the  silent  heart  of  the  mountains,  and,  having  gathered  it, 
had  lain  down  to  die  in  the  dread  solitudes  of  that  stu- 
pendous chasm — alone.  When  this  discovery  of  gold  first 
became  known  many  adventurous  spirits  from  the  Kimberley 
crossed  the  burning  northern  plains  and  pitched  their  tents 
in  the  great  winding  gorge  of  the  mountains.  A  year  went 
by  and  the  yield  of  gold  not  only  surpassed  the  expecta- 
tions of  the  most  sanguine  among  them,  but  satisfied  even 
those  gray  and  grizzled  individuals  who  remembered  the 
golden  days  of  Gympie*  and  the  Palmer,*  and,  in  their 

*  Rich  gold-fields  of  Queensland. 
b  a* 


l8  IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

boasts  of  a  time  when  nuggets  were  as  plentiful  as  stones 
in  the  creeks,  were  wont  to  disparage  all  subsequent 
discoveries. 

At  the  end  of  another  year  a  thousand  eager  treasure- 
seekers  were  washing  the  golden  sands  of  the  gorge.  Their 
numbers  daily  increased,  for  the  way  to  the  camp  no  longer 
lay  across  the  forbidding  northern  desert. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  mountains  the  country  to  the 
westward,  watered  by  the  tributaries  of  the  Fitzroy,  was 
found  to  be  of  a  more  inviting  nature,  and  through  it  com- 
munication had  been  opened  up  with  the  western  coast, 
some  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away.  A  coach  ran 
monthly  between  a  newly-established  port  and  a  point  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  distant  from  the  camp,  and  teams 
of  pack-mules  might  occasionally  be  seen  winding  along 
the  sinuous  course  of  the  Fitzroy,  laden  with  supplies  for 
the  field. 

Midway  between  the  mountains  and  the  coast  a  small 
stream  meandered  through  the  plain  on  its  way  to  the 
river.  This  stream  an  American  miner,  with  reminiscent 
patriotism,  had  sought  to  call  Hail  Columbia  Springs,  but 
among  the  prosaic  Australians,  on  whom  this  poetic  flight 
of  transatlantic  fancy  was  lost,  it  was  more  generally  known 
as  Damper  Creek. 

One  Silas  Barham,  a  squatter  from  the  Murchison,  had 
bought  a  block  of  grass  country  on  the  westward  side  of 
Damper  Creek,  and  from  his  station  supplies  of  beef  were 
drawn  for  the  camp  in  the  mountains. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  "  rush"  the  gorge  was  known  as 
Skeleton  Gulch,  a  name  suggested  by  one  of  the  incidents 
connected  with  its  discovery.  For  this  name  that  of  Dirty 
Mary's  Gully  had  been  substituted, — no  one  knew  exactly 
when  or  by  whom,  for  men  were  too  busy  in  those  days 
staking  out  claims  and  washing  rich  patches  of  "dirt"  to 
take  heed  of  such  minor  occurrences  as  a  change  in  the 
name  of  the  camp.  But  when  the  first  feverish  excitement 
had  subsided  they  began  to  ask  each  other  who  Dirty  Mary 
was,  but  no  one  seemed  to  know.  Surmises  as  to  her  iden- 
tity were  frequent,  but  unsatisfactory,  for  in  spite  of  much 
conjecture  and  inquiry  on  the  part  of  divers  individuals 
curious  to  learn  how  an  uncleanly  female  of  the  name  of 


IN  THE  "never  never  COUNTRY.         IQ 

Mary  came  to  be  associated  with  the  gully  in  a  proprietary 
sense,  her  personality  remained  shrouded  in  impenetrable 
mystery. 

A  facetious  miner  once  stated  his  belief  that  her  name 
must  have  been  Harris,  and  while  the  allusion  was  lost  on 
most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Gully,  not  a  few  of  them 
unconsciously  gave  additional  point  to  the  witticism  by 
freely  expressing  their  doubt  of  her  personal  entity  in  the 
emphatic  words  of  the  fiery  Betsy  Prig.  Like  that  sceptical 
lady,  "  they  didn't  believe  there  never  was  no  such  a  per- 
son.' But,  notwithstanding  this  general  conclusion,  no 
one  ventured  to  change  the  name  of  the  camp,  and  as 
Dirty  Mary's  Gully  it  continued  to  be  known. 

The  camp  was  divided  into  two  parts,  known  as  the 
upper  and  lower  camp.  The  earlier  arrivals  had  taken 
possession  of  such  of  the  plateaus  on  the  side  of  the  ter- 
raced wall  of  the  gorge  as  were  accessible,  and  groups  of 
tents  were  dotted  here  and  there,  at  various  altitudes,  on 
the  face  of  the  rock.  But  the  lower  camp  lay  in  the  bed  of 
the  gorge.  It  consisted  of  a  cluster  of  tents  and  ' '  hum- 
pies"* pitched  in  a  wide  sweeping  curve  of  the  canon, — 
a  sort  of  huge  natural  amphitheatre, — and  was  flanked  on 
either  side  by  a  vigorous  growth  of  scrub  that  fringed  the 
circular  base  of  the  cliff.  Sloping  gently  downward  from 
this  belt  of  scrub  to  the  creek  at  the  foot  of  the  opposite 
wall  was  a  wide  stretch  of  gravelly  sand,  and  in  this  sand — 
the  deposit  of  ages — the  gold  was  found. 

In  no  other  spot  in  the  world  can  such  a  heterogeneous 
assemblage  of  humanity  be  found  as  in  a  mining-camp. 
This  was  especially  true  of  Dirty  Mary's  Gully,  for  repre- 
sentatives of  almost  every  nationality,  color,  language,  and 
creed  under  the  sun  had  found  their  way  thither,  the  only 
thing  in  common  between  them  being  the  universal  thirst 
for  gold. 

Tall,  gaunt  stockmen  from  the  distant  plains  of  New 
South  Wales,  sallow  Victorians  from  the  mining  districts  of 
Ballarat,  bronzed  Queenslanders  from  the  Barcoo  and  the 
Warrego,  and  sturdy  colonists  from  New  Zealand's  humid 
shores  fraternized  with  their  ruddier  cousins  from  the  three 

*  A  humpy  is  a  small  hut  built  of  sheets  of  bark. 


20       IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

kingdoms.  Chattering  Chinamen  from  Hong-Kong,  and 
swarthy  Malays  from  the  Straits  Settlements  worked  side 
by  side  with  Portuguese  half-breeds  from  Timor  and  dusky 
Hindoos  from  the  jungles  of  Bengal.  One  caught  the  rich 
brogue  of  the  Emerald  Isle  mingling  with  the  jargon  of 
Cathay,  and  the  accent  of  London  and  the  dialect  of  old 
Scotia  were  heard  amid  the  gabble  of  Malaysia.  Uncouth 
bushmen  from  the  back  blocks,  who  could  neither  read 
nor  write,  conversed  affably  with  men  of  university  edu- 
cation ;  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity  reigned  supreme ; 
there  were  no  social  distinctions,  no  caste ;  mere  intel- 
lectual superiority  counted  for  nothing,  and  a  man's  only 
claim  to  consideration  was  based  upon  the  value  of  his 
claim. 

And  what  strange  stories  of  vicissitude,  could  they  be  but 
known,  were  the  lives  of  many  of  the  characters  in  that 
motley  throng  !  There  was  old  Dan  Creel, — usually  known 
as  ' '  the  Professor, " — a  man  of  some  fifty  years  of  age,  whose 
wrinkled  face  and  thin  gray  locks  gave  him  an  appearance 
of  much  greater  age, — a  tall,  spare  man  with  smooth- 
shaven,  hollow  cheeks,  sharp,  hooked  nose,  and  pale, 
emotionless  countenance,  lighted  by  two  dull,  deep-set 
eyes  that  gave  no  token  of  the  prodigious  learning  they 
had  gleaned  in  God  knows  how  many  years  of  patient 
study,  for  "the  Professor,"  albeit  but  a  humble  miner,  was 
a  profound  scholar.  The  languages  of  Horace  and  Euripi- 
des were  to  him  as  his  mother  tongue ;  of  Arabic,  Hebrew, 
and  Sanskrit  he  knew  more  than  many  a  modern  professor 
in  the  universities  ;  he  was  familiar  with  the  stately  tongues 
of  Cervantes  and  of  Dante ;  he  argued  with  Von  Wedern 
the  German  and  De  Remy  the  Frenchman  in  their  own 
vernacular,  and  talked  with  Naa  Dee  the  Malay,  Ganerjee 
Dass  the  Hindoo,  and  Ah  Chin  the  Chinaman  in  the  dia- 
lects of  their  respective  countries.  Indeed  there  hardly 
seemed  to  be  a  language  he  had  not  learned,  or  a  branch 
of  study  upon  which  he  had  not  pored. 

What  strange  circumstances  had  driven  this  gifted  and 
prematurely-aged  man  to  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of 
his  brow  in  the  heart  of  that  desolate  waste?  Whatever 
the  secret  it  was  well  guarded  :  on  the  subject  of  his  past 
history  ' '  the  Professor' '  was  as  silent  as  the  grave. 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  21 

There  was  Von  Wedern  the  German, — an  exile  from 
the  Fatherland, — a  stout,  somewhat  heavy-looking,  good- 
natured,  yellow-haired,  blue-eyed  young  Teuton,  whose 
appearance  at  once  suggested  the  roystering  student  of 
Heidelberg  or  Bonn.  His  forte  was  music,  and  he  played 
Beethoven's  sublime  sonatas,  with  the  manner  of  a  virtuoso, 
upon  an  old  violin  of  exquisite  ti?iibre  which  he  guarded  as 
tenderly  as  though  it  were  a  thing  of  life  and  feeling.  He 
was  the  chosen  friend  of  "  the  Professor,"  and  many  even- 
ings after  the  day's  work  was  done  the  two  might  be  seen 
outside  their  tent  indulging  in  a  friendly  game  of  chess,  of 
which  noble  pastime,  as  of  everything  else,  "  the  Professor" 
was  a  master. 

There  was  Lyndon  the  Englishman, — one  of  the  five 
pioneers  of  the  field,  the  younger  son  of  an  ancient  and 
noble  house, — a  man  of  many  accomplishments  and  re- 
markable personal  beauty,  who  had  flung  away  opportu- 
nities, talents,  and  money  in  the  vortex  of  London  dissipa- 
tion, and  now  wooed  the  fickle  goddess  Fortune  in  these 
distant  Australian  wilds. 

There  was  his  friend  Harte  the  Queenslander,  a  man  of 
gigantic  stature,  keen  of  eye,  fierce  of  aspect,  and  mous- 
tached  like  an  Austrian  Magyar, — a  veritable  child  of  na- 
ture, familiar  with  every  sight  and  sound  of  the  trackless 
bush,  whose  life  was  one  continuous  record  of  adventurous 
daring.  Under  his  guidance  the  field  had  been  discovered, 
and  this  circumstance,  together  with  his  well-known  repu- 
tation, made  him  the  most  prominent  man  in  the  Gully, 
Between  this  fearless  and  untutored  bushman  and  the  ac- 
complished Lyndon  ties  of  the  closest  intimacy  existed ; 
they  had  been  through  many  a  perilous  adventure  together, 
and  their  friendship  was  as  that  of  David  and  Jonathan. 

There  was  Le  Harne  the  doctor,  a  sad  illustration  of  the 
moral  ruin  wrought  by  drink.  He  had  graduated  with 
highest  honors  in  the  medical  schools  of  England,  and  no 
man  came  to  the  colonies  to  enter  upon  the  duties  of  an 
honorable  profession  with  brighter  prospects  than  he.  But 
the  demon  of  drink  had  taken  possession  of  him  com- 
pletely ;  he  lived  for  nothing  but  brandy.  At  times  he 
remained  in  a  drunken  stupor  for  days  together,  and  in  the 
intervals  between  these  orgies  he  was  generally  in  a  maudlin 


22        IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

State  of  semi-intoxication.  He,  however,  was  universally 
liked  by  the  rough  miners,  who  appreciated  his  undoubted 
talent,  for  had  he  not  cut  off  the  gangrenous  hand  and  so 
saved  the  life  of  Bristol  Bill  the  packer?  Had  he  not 
pulled  many  of  them  through  stiff  "bouts"  of  the  fever 
and  ague?  Had  he  not,  drunk  or  sober,  satisfactorily 
officiated  at  several  interesting  events  in  the  lower  camp 
which  resulted  in  an  increase  in  the  population  of  the 
Gully? 

Moreover,  excessive  drinking  was  a  virtue  rather  than  a 
vice  in  the  moral  code  of  Dirty  Mary's  Gully,  the  capacity 
to  dispose  of  unlimited  quantities  of  "tanglefoot" — the 
generic  term  for  drink  of  all  kinds — being  regarded  as  an 
enviable  distinction.  An  omission  to  respond  to  a  "shout" 
would  have  been  looked  upon  as  an  insult  to  the  commu- 
nity, for  the  lex  non  scripta  of  the  Gully  required  a  man  to 
drink  when  invited  whether  he  wanted  to  or  not.  It  is  but 
just  to  state,  parenthetically,  that  there  is  no  instance  on 
record  of  any  inhabitant  of  the  Gully  ever  being  called 
upon  to  resent  an  insult  of  this  description.  There  were 
numbers  of  those  curious  types  of  humanity  only  to  be 
found  in  the  diggings  whose  lives  are  spent  in  wandering 
from  field  to  field  in  pursuit  of  the  phantom  Fortune  that 
but  few,  alas  !  overtake.  Among  these  there  was  Twenty- 
Two- Year-Old-Scotty, — no  one  had  ever  known  him  by 
any  other  name, — whose  chief  claim  to  notoriety  lay  in  the 
fact  that  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  he  had  found  a  "  claim" 
called  the  Golden  Bar,  out  of  which  in  one  day  he  took 
four  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  gold.  Poor  devil !  his 
suddenly  acquired  wealth  had  only  purchased  him  a  brief 
debauch.  He  was  now  a  grizzled  veteran  of  fifty,  but  the 
name  Twenty-Two- Year-Old-Scotty,  given  to  him  in  com- 
memoration of  his  youthful  find,  had  clung  to  him  through 
a  life  of  varying  luck  in  many  widely  distant  fields.  His 
chosen  companion  was  an  individual  called  Blue  Peter,  a 
weather-beaten  bushman  with  a  thick  stubbly  beard  of  such 
exuberant  growth  that  nothing  could  be  seen  of  his  face 
save  the  nose  and  two  keen  blue  eyes  twinkling  humorously 
beneath  a  pair  of  bristling  eyebrows  of  the  dimensions  of 
ordinary  moustachios.  He  had  earned  his  strange  sobri- 
quet by  the  frequent  use  of  adjectival  phrases  of  singular 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  23 

construction  and  of  such  extremely  lurid  significance  that 
whenever  he  spoke  the  atmosphere  in  his  vicinity  was 
popularly  supposed  to  become  impregnated  with  a  sulphury 
odor  and  to  acquire  a  cerulean  hue.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
his  conversation  was  so  interlarded  with  startling  profanity 
and  curious  expletives  that  it  made  amends  in  originality 
for  what  it  lacked  in  elegance.  These  two  men  with  Bris- 
tol Bill  the  packer  were  the  other  three  pioneers  of  the 
field. 

But  perhaps  the  most  interesting  personage  in  the  camp 
— at  least  to  the  male  portion  of  the  population — was  Helen 
Compton,  a  young  woman  some  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven 
years  of  age,  who  presided  at  the  bar  of  the  "Golden 
Dawn' '  and  ministered  to  the  numerous  wants  of  the  thirsty 
patrons  of  that  pretentious  establishment.  A  woman  of 
refined  and  cultured  intelligence,  of  stately  presence  and 
regal  beauty,  she  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  coarser 
female  element  of  the  Gully,  whose  morals — let  us  be 
euphemistic  if  we  7nust  be  truthful — were  not  beyond  re- 
proach. Gifted  with  every  charm  of  mind  and  person,  it 
was  evident  that  at  some  period  in  her  life  she  had  moved 
in  polished  circles,  and  one  wondered  how  her  lot  came  to 
be  cast  amid  these  rude  surroundings  and  semi-savage  asso- 
ciations. Her  pale,  clear-cut  features  wore  a  look  of  patient 
resignation,  but  at  times  when  the  statuesque  face  was  in 
repose,  a  shadow  of  utter  weariness,  an  expression  of  pas- 
sionate yearning,  came  into  her  magnificent  dark  eyes,  in 
the  slumberous  depths  of  which  lurked  the  fire  of  a  proud 
and  passionate  nature.  She  was  idolized  by  the  rough 
miners,  to  whom  her  beauty  was  a  revelation  ;  she  was 
their  ideal,  their  divinity,  and  in  the  evenings  when  the 
day's  toil  was  done,  the  bar  filled  with  bronzed  and  bearded 
men,  clean  and  fresh  from  a  vigorous  application  of  soap 
and  water,  who  sought  with  uncouth  gallantries  and  all  the 
curious  arts  of  bush  coxcombry  to  find  favor  in  the  sight 
of  their  stately  Hebe. 

But  there  was  only  one  for  whose  coming  she  looked, 
— one  whose  handsome  face,  graceful  bearing,  and  fasci- 
nating charm  of  manner  had  ever  made  him  a  favorite  with 
women, — Lyndon  the  Englishman.  He  and  his  friend 
Harte  spent  their  evenings  in  the  "  Golden  Dawn,"  where 


24        IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

games  of  euchre,  poker,  loo,  and  such  Hke  amusements — 
often  for  very  large  stakes — were  nightly  in  progress. 

In  the  early  days  of  their  acquaintance,  Lyndon  was  wont 
to  stay  for  a  few  moments  to  chat  with  her,  ere  he  and 
Harte  left  for  their  common  quarters  higher  up  the  cliff. 
These  nightly  conversations  imperceptibly  lengthened,  until 
at  last  Lyndon  dropped  out  of  the  card-playing  clique  alto- 
gether, and  spent  the  whole  evening  in  Helen's  society. 


II. 

The  "Golden  Dawn"  was  quite  a  chef  d' ceuvre  of  bush 
architecture.  Built  of  roughly-planed  boards,  with  a  high- 
pitched  overhanging  roof  of  red  bark,  and  picturesquely 
placed  on  a  jutting  plateau  of  rock  in  the  sloping  face  of 
the  cliff,  it  made  a  most  imposing  appearance  among  the 
scattered  tents  and  "humpies"  in  the  upper  camp.  Van 
Steen,  the  proprietor,  a  wheezy  little  Dutchman,  kept  a 
supply  of  miscellaneous  goods  in  a  large  room  at  one  end, 
which  he  called  "the  store."  At  the  other  end,  divided 
from  the  store  by  a  number  of  living-rooms,  was  the  bar, 
which  was  supposed  to  be  under  the  immediate  supervision 
of  Mrs.  Van  Steen  ;  but  as  that  good  lady  was  fat  and  lazy, 
and  spent  the  greater  portion  of  her  time  in  bed,  Helen  had 
practically  sole  charge  of  it.  In  her  hands  it  had  been 
made  to  assume  quite  a  cheerful  and  inviting  aspect.  The 
floor  was  always  kept  freshly  sanded  ;  the  tables,  if  rough, 
were  always  clean,  and  the  bark  partitions  were  adorned  by 
several  neatly-framed  drawings  and  sepia  sketches  of  bush 
life,  the  work  of  Lyndon's  facile  pen.  There  was  an  air  of 
rude  comfort  about  it  which  the  rough  miners,  accustomed 
only  to  the  asperities  of  bush  existence,  gratefully  ap- 
preciated. Moreover,  it  seemed  to  them  that  ' '  shandy- 
gaffs" and  "rum  punches"  acquired  a  subtler  flavor  when 
mixed  by  the  deft  fingers  of  the  stately  Helen  than  those 
dispensed  in  the  reeking  bar  of  the  "Welcome  Nugget," 
the  rival  hotel  in  the  lower  camp,  where  uncleanliness,  to 
say  nothing  of  ungodliness,  reigned  supreme.     The  ' '  Wei- 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  25 

come  Nugget' '  was  the  resort  of  the  worst  element  of  the 
Gully,  both  male  and  female,  and  its  interior  was  nightly 
the  scene  of  Bacchanalian  orgies  that  rang  out  upon  the 
still  air  in  echoing  bursts  of  revelry  hideously  discordant. 
This  vile  place  was  owned  by  a  repulsive-looking  ruffian 
named  Ricardo,  whom  the  miners  with  satiric  irony  had 
dubbed  "Pretty  Dick."  He  was  a  half-breed  from  the 
Philippines, — a  powerful,  well-knit,  muscular  fellow,  lithe 
and  active  as  a  panther,  but  hideous  in  the  extreme  as  to 
his  facial  aspect. 

He  had  suffered  severely  from  "sandy  blight"*  in  the 
Gulf  Country,  and  the  lower  lids  of  his  glazed  and  blood- 
shot eyes  hung  down  upon  his  cheeks  in  pendulous  folds, — 
red,  inflamed,  and  rheumy.  His  countenance,  frightfully 
pitted  with  small-pox,  was  further  disfigured  by  a  huge  cica- 
trix extending  from  scalp  to  chin.  This  dreadful  wound,  in 
healing,  had  drawn  the  angle  of  his  mouth  up  into  the 
centre  of  his  cheek,  imparting  to  his  face  a  perpetual  leer, 
— a  fixed  and  ghastly  grin  that  was  absolutely  diabolical  in 
its  expression. 

This  ruffian's  moral  nature  was  in  fitting  conformity  with 
his  repulsive  exterior.  He  possessed  to  a  marked  degree 
all  the  cowardly,  crafty,  and  vindictive  qualities  that  dis- 
tinguish his  mongrel  race.  Moreover,  rumor  connected 
his  name  with  many  an  inhuman  crime,  a  circumstance 
which  appeared  to  enhance  his  reputation  in  the  eyes  of  the 
rowdy  element  that  frequented  his  resort.  And  this  dis- 
torted image  of  humanity  had,  in  common  with  the  rest  of 
the  camp,  fallen  beneath  the  spell  of  Helen  Compton's 
beauty.  Her  calm,  stately  presence  stirred  his  black  soul 
to  its  deepest  depths  and  fired  his  gross  and  sensual  nature 
with  an  all-consuming  passion.  Night  after  night  he  turned 
the  care  of  the  "Welcome  Nugget"  over  to  Stumpy 
Tom,  his  partner,  and  sought  the  bar  of  the  "Golden 
Dawn,"  where  he  would  sit  for  hours  with  his  bloodshot 
eyes  fixed  upon  Helen's  every  movement,  grinding  his 
yellow  teeth  in  silent  rage  and  jealousy  at  every  smile  she 
bestowed  upon  the  handsome  Englishman. 

Helen  soon  saw  that  she  was  the  object  of  this  man's 

*  An  affection  of  the  eyes  common  on  the  sandy  plains  of  Australia. 
B  3 


26  IN   THE    "never   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

regard,  and  the  discovery  filled  her  with  an  indescribable 
sense  of  loathing  and  disgust. 

One  evening  he  entered  the  bar  at  an  early  hour,  and 
Helen  was  seated  there  alone.  He  had  been  drinking 
slightly,  and  this  stimulus  emboldened  him  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  opportunity  to  urge  his  foul  suit.  His  beady  eyes 
glittered,  and  his  whole  frame  shook  with  ill-suppressed  ex- 
citement, as  he  offered  her  all  his  wealth.  He  knew  that  was 
the  only  argument  in  his  favor,  and  he  dwelt  upon  it. 

He  was  rich,  and  had  shares  in  many  of  the  best  claims 
in  the  Gully.  His  men  had  struck  a  vein  of  quartz  in  his 
new  claim,  the  Morning  Star,  which  promised  to  yield 
thousands.  She  should  have  all, — claims,  shares,  money, 
everything.  She  should  live  in  Melbourne  or  Sydney  like 
a  princess,  if  she  would  only  be  his  wife.  Helen  was 
startled  at  the  man's  intense  earnestness.  She  heard  him 
throughout  with  paling  cheek,  and  then  told  him  plainly  and 
calmly  that  she  could  not  be  his  wife.  This  refusal  only 
added  fuel  to  his  unreasoning  passion.  Intoxicated  with 
her  beauty  and  robbed  of  discretion  by  the  drink  he  had 
taken,  he  seized  her  by  the  wrist  and  waist  and,  regardless 
of  rapidly-approaching  footsteps,  bent  down  and  would 
have  pressed  his  loathsome  lips  to  hers,  when  two  tall 
figures — Harte  and  Lyndon — loomed  in  the  door-way,  and 
in  another  instant  the  ruffian  was  stricken  to  the  earth  by  the 
Englishman's  stout  arm. 

From  that  day  forth  the  half-breed  came  to  the  bar  of 
the  "Golden  Dawn"  no  more,  a  wholesome  piece  of  dis- 
cretion on  his  part,  in  view  of  Harte' s  threat  to  shoot  him 
on  sight  if  he  ever  ventured  within  pistol-shot  of  the  place 
again.  But  in  his  heart  he  vowed  to  be  revenged  for  the 
blow  he  had  received,  and  whenever  he  passed  Lyndon  his 
eyes  gleamed  with  an  expression  of  concentrated  hate  that 
boded  ill  for  the  handsome  miner,  who  returned  the  venge- 
ful glance  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 

Now,  old  Van  Steen,  the  Dutchman,  owned  shares  in 
several  good  claims,  and  as  the  store  occupied  most  of 
his  attention  during  the  day,  he  took  Blue  Peter — who  had 
shares  in  the  same  claims — into  partnership,  to  look  after 
the  mining  interests.  Blue  Peter,  having  been  duly  installed 
as  a  member  of  the  firm,  at  once  assumed  a  fatherly  interest 


IN  THE    "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY."  27 

in  Helen,  for  whom  he  had  always  entertained  a  most 
respectful  admiration. 

"It  ain't  right,"  he  remarked  to  old  Van  Steen,  with 
much  profane  emphasis,  "it  ain't  right  to  keep  that  poor 

gal  hard  at  it  all  the day  and  then  expect  her  to  wait 

on  us fellers  all  the night.  So  if  so  be,  part- 
ner, as  you  ain't  got  no  objections,  I'll  take  her  place  o' 
nights  once  in  a  while  behind  the  bar  and  give  her  a  breathin' 
spell."  Old  Van  Steen  offering  no  objection,  it  was  agreed 
that  Blue  Peter  should  take  Helen's  place  every  other  night. 
There  was  a  prevailing  impression  that  Blue  Peter's  solici- 
tude on  Helen's  behalf  was  not  wholly  disinterested,  for  it 
was  observed  that  upon  taking  charge  of  the  bar  he  imme- 
diately appropriated  to  his  own  use  a  bottle  of  exceedingly 
fiery  whiskey,  from  which  he  imbibed  copious  draughts  at 
frequent  intervals  with  an  air  of  such  deep  abstraction  that 
he  quite  forgot  to  debit  the  cost  to  his  personal  account  on 
the  slate  at  the  back  of  the  door,  whereon  he  kept  a  hiero- 
glyphic record  of  the  bibulous  propensities  of  such  of  his 
patrons  as  obtained  their  liquor  on  credit. 

The  arrangement  with  Blue  Peter  enabled  Helen  to  spend 
many  delightful  evenings  in  Lyndon's  company.  Her  life 
in  this  remote  mining- camp  was  a  peculiarly  solitary  one. 

The  otiose  Mrs.  Van  Steen  was  the  only  one  of  her  own 
sex  with  whom  she  could  associate,  for  although  there  were 
a  number  of  women  in  the  lower  camp  who,  as  a  sort  of 
placebo  to  public  sentiment,  were  spoken  of  as  the  wives 
of  the  men  with  whom  they  lived,  their  matrimonial  ties  were 
apparently  of  a  very  temporary  nature,  as  it  was  no  unusual 
thing — though  at  times  somewhat  confusing  to  the  "new 
chum"*  unacquainted  with  the  prevaiHng  laxity  of  morals 
in  Dirty  Mary's  Gully — to  find  a  female  known  as  "  Mrs." 
This  on  Monday  figuring  as  "Mrs."  That  on  the  follow- 
ing Saturday.  It  was  therefore  but  natural  that,  amid  these 
rude  surroundings,  Helen  should  yearn  for  congenial  com- 
panionship. From  the  first  she  had  felt  drawn  towards 
Lyndon,  whose  manner  and  bearing  had  at  once  stamped 
him  as  superior  to  the  uncouth  bushmen  with  whom  she 

*  The  term  "  new  chum"  is  synonymous  with  the  expression  "  tender- 
foot" in  the  Western  States. 


128  IN  THE    "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY." 

was  daily  brought  in  contact.  It  is  true  "  the  Professor," 
Von  Wedern  the  German,  and  De  Reniy  the  Frenchman 
were  men  of  undoubted  breeding  and  education  ;  but  beyond 
a  passing  compliment  when  they  took  a  drink,  they  said 
but  little  to  her  ;  all  their  spare  moments  were  given  up  to 
the  fascinations  of  euchre  and  loo.  But  Lyndon  had  always 
had  a  weakness  for  the  society  of  women,  since  the  palmy 
days  of  his  existence  in  London  drawing-rooms,  when  he 
had  been  the  bHe  noire  of  numberless  fond  mammas  whose 
marriageable  daughters,  notwithstanding  a  judicious  train- 
ing in  worldly  principles,  somehow  would  persist  in  falling 
hopelessly  in  love  with  the  accomplished,  but  spendthrift, 
younger  son.  He  was  powerfully  attracted  by  the  grace 
and  beauty  of  this  singular  woman, — more,  perhaps,  than 
he  cared  to  admit.  There  was  an  indefinable  air  of  pathos 
in  her  every  look  and  action,  apart  from  the  element  of 
mystery  surrounding  the  presence  in  a  mining-camp  of  a 
woman  of  her  gentle  nurture  and  cultivated  mind,  that 
deepened  the  interest  he  took  in  her,  and  he  welcomed  the 
respite  from  interminable  discussions  of  values  of  claims 
and  newly-found  nuggets — the  universal  topic  of  conversa- 
tion in  the  Gully — which  these  pleasant  evenings  in  her 
society  afforded  him.  And  this  interest  would  doubtless 
have  developed  into  a  deeper  attachment  had  it  not  been 
for  the  memory  of  fair  Edith  Barham,  to  whom  he  had 
given  his  heart  two  years  before,  when  he  and  his  friend 
Harte  were  staying  at  WoUattara  Station,  on  the  Murchison, 
He  was  only  waiting  until  he  had  "  made  his  pile," — to  use 
a  colloquialism  of  the  Gully, — to  go  and  claim  her  from 
her  worldly  old  father,  who  had  bluntly  intimated  that  he 
would  rather  see  his  daughter  marry  for  cash  than  senti- 
ment. 

Helen  had  early  discovered  that  the  handsome  miner 
was  growing  very  dear  to  her.  But,  inconsistent  as  it  may 
seem,  with  the  dawning  of  this  her  first  love  arose  the  hope 
that  it  might  not  be  returned  ;  for  deep  within  her  breast 
there  rankled  the  memory  of  a  shameful  wrong  that  had 
darkened  and  embittered  her  life,  and  though  morally  she 
felt  herself  to  be  guiltless,  she  knew  that  in  such  cases  as 
hers  the  thumbs  of  a  merciless  world  are  always  turned 
downward  in  relentless  condemnation.     She  did  not  seek 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  29 

to  find  solace  in  the  thought  that,  here  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains,  her  past  history  was  known  only  to  herself. 
Indeed,  in  view  of  the  courteous  deference  and  respect  paid 
her  on  every  hand,  that  very  circumstance  made  her  feel 
that  she  was  living  a  life  of  false  pretence. 

In  the  calm,  still  evenings  she  frequently  walked  with 
Lyndon  as  far  as  the  spot  where  the  path  to  the  lower  camp 
branched  off  from  the  road  that  ran  along  the  side  of  the 
canon.  In  all  her  walks  and  talks  with  him  she  had  never 
referred  in  any  way  to  her  past  life,  though  he  had  told  her 
almost  everything  he  had  to  tell  about  himself  Sometimes 
she  longed  to  tell  him  the  sad  secret  of  her  life,  and  yet 
again  she  feared  the  revelation  might  make  her  an  object 
of  scorn  and  reproach  in  his  eyes,  for  she  knew  instinctively 
that  he  had  the  fullest  faith  in  her  innocence  and  purity. 
And  it  thus  happened  that  the  story,  always  trembling  on 
her  lips,  was  continually  deferred. 

Now,  Ricardo,  in  spite  of  Harte's  threat,  sometimes  ven- 
tured into  the  neighborhood  of  the  "Golden  Dawn"  by 
night,  in  order  that  he  might  feast  his  eyes  with  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  Helen  as  she  passed  to  and  fro  about  the  bar. 
He  came  to  the  upper  camp  one  evening  and  placed  himself, 
as  usual,  in  a  position  whence  he  could  see  without  being 
seen.  Being  unaware  of  the  change  in  the  arrangements 
at  the  "  Golden  Dawn,"  he  was  surprised  to  see  Blue  Peter 
officiating  in  the  place  of  Helen.  His  mind  was  busy  form- 
ing theories  to  account  for  the  change,  when  he  heard  voices 
close  at  hand,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  saw  Helen  walk- 
ing slowly  down  the  rocky  road  accompanied  by  the  man 
upon  whom  he  had  sworn  to  be  revenged.  Burning  with 
jealous  rage,  he  followed  them  at  a  distance,  and  when  they 
halted  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace  he  drew  near  under  cover 
of  the  rocks,  and  crouched  down  in  the  shadow  of  a  small 
belt  of  myall  some  thirty  yards  away.  His  heart  was  filled 
with  vengeful  fury.  Again  and  again  he  raised  his  pistol, 
but  the  fear  that,  instead  of  his  hated  rival,  he  might  kill 
the  woman  for  whom  he  would  have  given  his  soul,  re- 
strained him  from  pressing  the  trigger.  Unconscious  of  his 
close  proximity,  Helen  and  Lyndon  stood  for  some  time 
listening  to  the  concatenation  of  curious  sounds  arising 
from  the  nightly  revel  in  the  lower  camp,  and  admiring  the 

3* 


30  IN   THE    "never   NEVER   COITNTRY. 

weird  effect  of  light  and  shadow  in  the  sweeping  curve  of 
the  gorge. 

When  at  last  Lyndon  made  a  motion  as  if  to  continue  the 
walk,  Helen,  who  had  been  in  a  strangely  silent  mood  all 
the  evening,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  said, — 

"  Francis,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  a  story  ;  it  is  rather 
;i  long  one,  but  the  night  is  young  and  we  can  sit  down  on 
this  ledge  of  rock." 

Lyndon,  wondering  somewhat  at  the  sudden  tone  of  sad- 
ness in  her  voice,  sat  down  beside  her,  and,  after  a  short 
silence,  during  which  she  seemed  to  be  struggling  to  sup- 
press some  rising  emotion,  Helen,  in  a  low,  steady  voice, 
began  her  story. 


III. 

HELEN'S   STORY. 


"Some  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  England,  I  knew  a 
young  girl,  the  only  daughter  of  a  retired  merchant  of  con- 
siderable fortune.  She  lost  her  mother  when  quite  young, 
and  at  an  early  age  was  sent  by  her  father  to  a  fashionable 
seminary  in  Paris,  where  she  received  a  finished  education. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  she  left  school  to  assume  control  of 
her  father's  household,  where  for  the  next  two  years  she 
lived  a  life  of  luxurious  ease,  surrounded  by  every  comfort 
a  refined  and  cultivated  taste  could  suggest.  From  her 
mother  this  young  lady,  whom  I  will  call  Eleanor,  inherited 
unusual  personal  beauty,  and,  as  her  father  was  known  to 
be  wealthy,  suitors  for  her  hand  were  not  long  in  declaring 
themselves.  But  in  those  days  Eleanor  was  of  a  proud 
and  independent  spirit,  and,  as  her  heart  had  not  yet  been 
touched,  she  dismissed  all  her  admirers  with  very  scant 
ceremony,  though  many  of  the  offers  she  received  were  most 
eligible  ones  from  a  worldly  point  of  view.  After  a  while 
she  noticed  that  these  continued  refusals  caused  her  father 
a  good  deal  of  uneasiness.  He  seemed  bent  upon  her 
marrying,  and  let  no  opportunity  slip  of  impressing  upon 
her  the  necessity  of  making  what  is  termed  a  '  good  match.' 
When  she  reflected  that  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  a 


IN  THE  "never  never  COUNTRY.  3I 

wealthy  man,  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  laid  undue  stress  upon 
this  point.  But  she  did  not  know  that  her  father  was 
heavily  involved ;  she  did  not  know  that  disastrous  specu- 
lations had  swallowed  up  his  fortune,  and  that  for  months 
past  he  had  been  upon  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  striving 
to  recoup  his  losses  by  still  more  desperate  ventures,  or  she 
would  have  realized  that  his  seeming  urgency  was  but  a 
tender  regard  for  her  welfare, — that  he  might  see  her 
well  provided  for  before  the  inevitable  crash  came.  Her 
enlightenment  came  soon. 

"One  day  her  father  was  found  dead  in  the  library,  an 
empty  pistol  by  his  side.  When  his  affairs  were  wound  up 
it  was  discovered  that  he  had  died  hopelessly  insolvent. 
The  dear  old  home  with  all  its  luxurious  appointments  was 
sold  to  satisfy  the  creditors,  and  Eleanor  found  herself  at 
twenty-one  reduced  from  affluence  to  beggary,  without  a 
relative  in  the  wide  world,  or  indeed  any  one  upon  whom 
she  had  the  slightest  claim  for  assistance.  A  few  of  her  late 
father's  near  acquaintances  interested  themselves  on  her 
behalf,  and  obtained  for  her  a  position  as  governess  in  the 
family  of  a  Mr.  Lothbury,  a  wealthy  London  stock-broker. 
The  Lothburys  lived  about  one  hundred  miles  from  London, 
in  a  great  modern  mansion  called  Lombard  Place,  where 
they  maintained  a  large  establishment  on  a  scale  of  ostenta- 
tious grandeur  that  quite  eclipsed  the  old  country  families 
in  that  neighborhood.  In  addition  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loth- 
bury, the  home  circle  contained  two  grown  daughters — Julia 
and  Ella — and  four  other  children, — three  girls  and  a  boy, 
ranging  from  nine  to  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  were  placed 
in  Eleanor's  charge  at  a  stipend  of  one  hundred  pounds  a 
year. 

' '  Accustomed  all  her  life  to  the  gratification  of  every 
whim  and  caprice,  and  to  the  tender  solicitude  of  a  fond 
and  indulgent  parent,  Eleanor  found  the  bread  of  depend- 
ence very  bitter  food.  By  Mr.  Lothbury  she  was  treated 
with  affable  condescension,  as  became  a  man  of  his  extreme 
importance,  by  Mrs.  Lothbury  with  haughty  patronage, 
while  the  two  grown  daughters  seemed  to  regard  her  with 
a  combination  of  '  envy,  hatred,  and  malice,  and  all  unchari- 
tableness.'  The  reason  for  this  was  not  hard  to  find. 
Eleanor,  as  I  have  told  you,  was  considered  very  beautiful. 


32        IN  THE  "never  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

She  was  an  accomplished  musician,  an  excellent  linguist, 
and  a  brilliant  conversationalist.  When  Lombard  Place 
was  full  of  company,  as  it  generally  was,  she  was  frequently 
called  upon  to  display  her  musical  talent  for  the  edification 
of  the  guests,  and  Mrs.  Lothbury  observed  with  virtuous 
indignation  that  on  these  occasions  the  gentlemen  present 
seemed  to  take  a  greater  interest  in  the  penniless  governess 
than  in  her  own  angular  daughters,  notwithstanding  each 
of  those  unprepossessing  young  ladies  had  an  undeniable 
attraction  in  the  shape  of  a  dowry  of  two  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds.  It  thus  fell  out  that  the  drawing-room  was 
tabooed  to  Eleanor,  and  instead  of  dining  as  heretofore  in 
the  great  dining-room  as  one  of  the  family,  she  was 
requested  to  take  her  meals  in  her  own  room. 

"  Her  life  was  indeed  a  cheerless  one.  The  children  she 
was  paid  to  teach  were  ignorant,  wilful,  and  insubordinate, 
and  lost  no  opportunity  of  insulting  her  by  repeating  in 
her  presence  the  sarcastic  remarks  they  heard  their  elder 
sisters  make  about  the  governess.  Her  proud,  sensitive 
spirit  writhed  in  anguish  at  the  petty  slights  she  was  daily 
compelled  to  endure,  and  the  galling  sense  of  dependence 
made  existence  well-nigh  unbearable.  And  so  her  life  went 
on  from  day  to  day  without  a  single  word  of  sympathy  to 
relieve  its  hopeless  monotony. 

"She  had  been  about  six  months  in  Mrs.  Lothbury's 
household  when  preparations  were  made  for  great  Christ- 
mas festivities.  Invitations  were  issued  to  hosts  of  friends 
and  acquaintances  of  the  family  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood and  in  London.  As  Christmas  drew  near  the  house 
filled  with  guests,  and  one  evening  Eleanor  was  sitting  in 
her  room  alone,  thinking  sorrowfully  of  the  past,  when  a 
footman  unexpectedly  summoned  her  to  the  drawing-room 
to  play  one  of  Beethoven's  sonatas,  which  no  one  there  was 
able  to  do  justice.  Seated  at  the  piano  was  a  dark,  hand- 
some man  with  a  blase  air,  who,  as  she  approached,  vacated 
the  seat  and  stood  by  to  turn  the  music  for  her.  As  she 
rendered  the  divine  inspiration  of  the  great  master  she  felt 
that  this  man's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  her  face,  and,  timidly 
venturing  to  glance  upward  after  striking  the  last  chord, 
she  met  his  eyes  gazing  down  into  hers  with  a  look  of  bold 
and  undisguised  admiration. 


IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY."  33 

' '  A  few  minutes  later,  as  she  sat  alone  in  a  deep  recess 
near  the  piano  awaiting  any  further  demands  that  might  be 
inade  upon  her  services,  she  saw  the  dark  gentleman  walk 
up  to  Mrs.  Lothbury,  who  was  but  a  few  feet  away,  and 
prefer  some  request,  whereat  that  grande  dame  feigned  a 
look  of  amused  astonishment. 

"  '  Impossible,  my  dear  Sir  Gilbert,'  she  heard  Mrs. 
Lothbury  say.  '  She  is  the  governess,  and  we  only  had 
her  down  to  play  those  pieces  for  you. ' 

"  'Yes,  I  am  aware  of  that,'  said  the  dark  gentleman, 
with  the  faintest  possible  emphasis.  '  But  even  so,  I 
would  venture  to  ask  again  for  an  introduction.'  And  Mrs. 
Lothbury,  seeing  that  he  would  take  no  denial,  led  the  way 
with  very  ill  grace  to  the  corner  where  Eleanor  sat,  and 
introduced  her  to  Sir  Gilbert  Thornhaugh.  For  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening  the  baronet  sat  by  her  side,  and 
Eleanor  for  the  first  time  in  many  weary  months  enjoyed 
the  novel  sensation  of  being  treated  with  courtesy  and 
deference  as  an  equal  in  a  house  where  she  had  hitherto 
been  compelled  to  submit  to  all  the  slights  of  dependence. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  her  feeling  of  gratitude  to  the  baronet, 
there  was  an  indefinable  something  in  his  manner  that 
repelled  her. 

"  During  the  next  few  days,  in  her  solitary  walks  about 
the  grounds,  she  frequently  met  Sir  Gilbert,  who  invariably 
stopped  to  chat  a  few  moments  with  her.  She  could 
plainly  see  that  he  admired  her,  and  one  day  as  she  sat 
thinking  of  this  in  the  cheerless  school-room  after  a  more 
than  usually  trying  day  with  her  refractory  pupils,  a  sudden 
hope  dawned  within  her  that  his  admiration  might  turn  to 
love.  What  if  he  should  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  !  Such  a 
thing  might  come  to  pass.  She  had  read  of  such  happen- 
ings in  novels,  and  there  are  stranger  things  in  real  life 
than  are  found  in  fiction.  Why  should  there  not  be  a 
romance  in  her  humdrum  life  ?  True,  she  did  not,  and  felt 
that  she  could  not,  love  this  dark,  sinister-looking  man 
with  the  repellent  smile.  But  what  of  that?  Better  life 
with  a  man  she  could  not  love  than  an  endless  round  of 
drudgery  ;  and  she  fostered  this  new-born  hope  until  it 
became  the  day-star  of  her  existence.  Had  she  but  known 
that  while  Sir  Gilbert  Thornhaugh  dallied  with  her  in  the 


34        IN  THE  "never  never  COUNTRY. 

garden  he  was  on  the  eve  of  offering  his  hand  and  title  to 
Miss  Lothbury,  with  whose  dowry  he  intended  to  pay  off 
his  large  debts  and  the  heavy  mortgages  on  his  landed 
property, — had  she  but  known  that  he  was  a  notorious 
profligate  and  libertine,  a  veritable  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing 
going  about  seeking  whom  he  might  devour,  her  life  might 
not  have  been  wrecked.  But  I  am  dwelling  too  long  on 
this  part  of  Eleanor's  history,  and  I  have  yet  much  to  tell. 
One  dull  winter  afternoon  she  met  Sir  Gilbert  in  the  garden, 
and,  as  usual,  he  stopped  to  talk  to  her.  While  they  were 
conversing,  Mrs.  Lothbury,  who  had  evidently  observed 
them  from  the  windows,  came  up  and  addressed  some 
commonplace  remark  to  Sir  Gilbert,  studiously  ignoring 
the  presence  of  the  governess  ;  but  Eleanor  could  see  that 
inwardly  her  employer  was  furious.  Next  day  the  children 
did  not  attend  school,  and  during  the  morning  hours  their 
absence  was  explained  by  a  note  to  the  effect  that  '  Mrs, 
Lothbury,  having  no  further  need  of  Miss  Galbraith's  ser- 
vices, begged  to  inclose  a  check  for  a  quarter's  salary  in 
lieu  of  the  customary  notice.' 

"Later  in  the  day  Eleanor,  having  packed  her  scanty 
wardrobe,  was  sitting  by  the  window  in  the  waning  light  of 
the  January  afternoon.  The  snow  was  falling  fast  outside, 
and  the  trees  in  the  garden  looked  white  and  ghostly  in  the 
deepening  gloom.  How  typical  the  bleak  outlook  was  of 
her  own  dreary  prospects  !  she  thought.  To-morrow  she 
would  go  forth  into  this  cold  world  houseless  and  homeless, 
and  as  the  full  measure  of  her  friendlessness  came  home  to 
her  she  bowed  her  head  to  the  cold  sill  and  wept  in  her 
agony  of  heart.  She  had  barely  recovered  from  her  storm 
of  tears  when  the  door  of  the  school-room  opened,  and  in 
the  flickering  firelight  she  could  just  distinguish  the  form  of 
Sir  Gilbert  Thornhaugh  coming  towards  her.  She  rose, 
and  Sir  Gilbert,  bowing,  said,  '  Pardon  this  intrusion  on 
your  privacy,  Miss  Galbraith,  but  I  only  this  moment  heard 
that  you  were  to  leave  us,  and  as  I  feel  that  I  am,  in  a  meas- 
ure, the  cause  of  your  dismissal,  I  at  once  came  to  express 
my  sorrow,  and  to  ask  whether  I  could  be  of  assistance  to 
you  in  any  way.'  He  spoke  so  gently,  and  there  was  such 
a  ring  of  kindly  sympathy  in  his  low  voice,  that  her  heart 
was  touched,  and  the  ready  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  again. 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  35 

She  was  about  to  thank  him,  brokenly,  when  he  took  her 
hand  and  whispered, — 

"  '  Eleanor,  I  know  you  are  friendless  and  alone,  let  me 
be  your  protector,  let  me  shield  you  from  the  storms  and 
conflicts  of  Hfe.'  And  Eleanor,  trusting  in  his  honor,  could 
only  place  her  hands  upon  his  shoulder  and  sob  as  though 
her  heart  would  break.  He  placed  his  arm  about  her  until 
the  paroxysm  died  away,  and  then  said,  '  You  are  to  leave 
on  Saturday,  I  am  told  ;  to-day  is  Thursday.  I  have  to  go 
to  London  on  an  important  matter  within  an  hour,  and  will 
meet  you  at  the  terminus  there  on  Saturday  evening.  Till 
then  good-by,  dearest.'  He  bent  and  kissed  her,  and  in 
another  moment  she  was  again  alone. 

"This  unlooked-for  termination  to  all  her  troubles  raised 
Eleanor's  spirits  wonderfully,  and  she  stepped  into  the 
brougham  on  her  drive  to  Leicester  en  route  for  London 
with  a  lighter  heart  than  she  had  known  for  months.  The 
frosty  weather  that  had  prevailed  for  some  weeks  past  gave 
place  on  the  morning  of  her  departure  to  a  decided  thaw, 
and  Leicester  Station  was  enveloped  in  a  heavy  mantle  of 
fog  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  3  P.M.  express  for  St.  Pan- 
eras.  Owing  to  the  thick  weather  frequent  stoppages  were 
made  on  the  journey,  and  the  express  was  three  hours  over- 
due when  it  reached  the  terminus.  The  people  on  the  plat- 
form looked  like  ghosts  in  the  fog,  and  Eleanor  feared  she 
would  miss  her  lover  in  the  Cimmerian  gloom.  But  he  was 
patiently  awaiting  her  near  the  main  entrance,  in  front  of 
which  stood  his  well-appointed  private  cab,  and  it  was  with 
a  feeling  of  security  for  the  future,  if  not  of  happiness,  that 
she  took  her  seat  by  his  side.  She  had  never  been  in 
London  before,  and  every  one  of  the  maze  of  streets 
through  which  they  drove  looked  alike  to  her  in  the  fog. 
In  about  twenty  minutes  the  cab  drew  up  at  a  brilliantly- 
lighted  place,  which  Sir  Gilbert  told  her  was  the  Hotel  Con- 
tinental, and  where  he  said  they  would  have  some  supper. 
Eleanor,  not  having  eaten  anything  since  noon,  was  noth- 
ing loath  to  fall  in  with  this  suggestion,  and  Sir  Gilbert  led 
the  way  to  a  private  apartment,  where  a  most  sumptuous 
repast  was  speedily  provided.  During  the  supper,  Eleanor, 
seeing  that  Sir  Gilbert  said  nothing  on  the  subject,  timidly 
ventured  to  ask  what  arranoements  he  had  made  for  their 


36  IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

marriage.  She  fancied  that  a  gleam  of  amusement  came 
into  his  eyes  at  this  question,  but  it  was  a  mere  shadow, 
and  his  voice  was  very  tender  as  he  told  her  that  he  had  in- 
tended to  apply  for  the  license  on  Monday  morning.  After 
supper  they  lingered  awhile  over  a  bottle  of  sparkling 
champagne,  and  Eleanor's  former  bright  spirits  revived 
under  the  influence  of  the  generous  vintage.  But  the  even- 
ing drew  on  apace,  and  at  last  Sir  Gilbert  rose  and  touched 
the  bell.  Having  paid  the  bill,  he  gently  adjusted  her  cloak, 
and  led  her  down  to  the  entrance,  where,  during  supper, 
his  cab  remained  waiting.  He  handed  her  in  ;  she  heard 
him  say  'St.  John's  Wood'  to  the  driver,  and  then  he  got  in 
himself.  Eleanor  had  such  a  firm  faith  in  his  honor  that  she 
experienced  no  feeling  of  misgiving,  and  even  had  she  enter- 
tained any  doubts  as  to  the  propriety  of  her  position,  they 
would  have  been  dispelled  by  the  tender  assurances  of  devo- 
tion which  he  poured  into  her  ears  as  they  drove  on.  At 
last  the  cab  stopped,  and  Sir  Gilbert,  dismissing  the  man, 
led  the  way  through  a  small  iron  gate  and  across  a  broad 
stretch  of  lawn  until  they  came  to  the  door  of  a  house.  A 
ring  at  the  bell  was  answered  by  a  page  in  livery,  who  took 
his  master's  hat  and  stick  and  vanished,  and  Sir  Gilbert,  re- 
moving Eleanor's  cloak,  said,  'Welcome  to  your  future 
home,  dearest.' 

"The  next  day,  Sunday,  the  weather  being  wet  and 
gloomy,  they  remained  in  the  house  all  day.  Eleanor, 
whose  powers  of  observation  were  of  the  keenest,  noticed 
that  while  her  lover's  assurances  were  apparently  as  earnest 
and  loving  as  before,  there  seemed  to  be  a  subtle  change  in 
his  manner,  now  that  she  had  spent  a  night  beneath  his  roof, 
that  she  could  not  well  define,  and  as  evening  again  ap- 
proached she  began  to  feel  a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness 
which  even  the  thought  that  she  was  to  be  married  on  the 
morrow  could  not  wholly  allay. 

"  Monday  morning  came,  and  after  breakfast  Sir  Gil- 
bert's cab  dashed  up  to  the  door  and  he  drove  oft,  osten- 
sibly to  procure  the  license  for  their  marriage.  As  hour 
after  hour  passed  and  he  did  not  return,  she  became  alarmed. 
Her  fears  were  in  no  wise  diminished  when  she  dwelt  upon 
her  position,  and  she  began  to  regret  the  step  she  had  taken. 
It  was  quite  dark  when  she  heard  the  welcome  sound  of  the 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  37 

cab  wheels  ringing  on  the  gravel  drive.  Her  heart  fell  at 
the  sight  of  Sir  Gilbert.  He  had  left  her  in  his  ordinary- 
attire,  he  returned  in  evening  dress,  and  though  his  gait  and 
speech  were  steady,  the  unwonted  brightness  of  his  eyes  and 
his  flushed  cheeks  told  her  that  he  had  been  drinking.  The 
subtle  change  in  his  manner  that  she  had  noticed  in  the 
morning  was  now  more  marked.  He  was  no  longer  the  low- 
voiced  lover  full  of  eloquent  assurances  of  tender  devotion, 
but  a  matter-of-fact  individual  who  spoke  with  the  air  of  one 
who  feels  that  he  is  master  of  the  situation. 

"  '  Sorry  I'm  so  late,  my  dear,'  he  said,  coolly,  by  way 
of  explanation  of  his  absence,  'but  it  couldn't  be  helped. 
You  see  I  met  Legard  Villiers  and  one  or  two  other  fellows 
at  the  club,  and  they  would  insist  on  my  going  down  to 
Tattersall's  to  look  at  some  horses.  I  dined  and  changed 
clothes  at  the  club,  and  have  only  driven  back  to  take  you 
to  the  theatre.  So  run  up-stairs  and  put  on  that  dress  you 
wore  the  night  I  saw  you  first;  it  suits  you  charmingly.' 

' '  *  But  did  you  get  the  license  ?'  said  Eleanor,  in  a  falter- 
ing voice,  for  a  sickening  dread  was  beginning  to  steal  over 
her.  She  had  staked  everything  upon  this  man's  honor, 
and  his  levity  aroused  a  horrible  suspicion  in  her  mind. 

"  '  Oh,  the  license,  yes,'  drawled  Sir  Gilbert,  in  an  indif- 
ferent tone.  '  I  found  that  under  our  infernal  marriage 
laws  it  is  necessary  for  one  or  both  of  the  contracting  parties 
to  reside  in  a  parish  fifteen  days  before  the  ceremony  can  be 
legally  performed,  unless  they  care  to  go  to  the  expense  of 
a  special  license,  in  which  case  I  am  told  they  are  required 
to  furnish  reasons  for  their  desire  to  enter  into  conjugal 
felicity  in  such  a  deuce  of  a  hurry  to  no  less  a  personage 
than  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  But  we  can  talk  this 
over  in  the  cab  ;  so  run  off  now,  my  dear,  and  dress.  I 
will  wait  here  for  you,  and  pray  do  not  look  so  confoundedly 
solemn  ;  you  cannot  imagine  how  it  spoils  that  lovely  face  of 
yours.' 

"  I  cannot  attempt  to  describe  to  you  the  state  of  poor 
Eleanor' s  mind  during  the  next  few  days.  Sir  Gilbert' s  levity 
vanished  with  the  fumes  of  the  wine  he  had  taken.  His 
manner  became  again  that  of  a  tender  and  considerate  lover, 
but  he  evaded  all  discussion  of  the  marriage,  turning  the 
conversation  into  other  channels  with  the  remark  that  there 


38  IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY." 

was  no  need  to  discuss  that  question  until  they  had  complied 
with  the  residential  qualifications  required  by  the  law.  Fail- 
ing to  arrive  at  any  more  satisfactory  understanding,  Elea- 
nor, with  her  mind  in  a  chaos  of  doubt  and  fear,  decided 
not  to  leave  the  house  until  the  expiration  of  the  legal 
period. 

"Sir  Gilbert  did  not  seem  to  mind  this  in  the  least, 
and  he  went  out  every  day,  returning,  as  a  rule,  just  before 
dinner  to  spend  the  evening  with  her.  During  his  absence 
Eleanor  usually  passed  the  time  in  reading,  and  one  after- 
noon she  was  idly  glancing  through  the  items  of  metropoli- 
tan gossip  in  a  well-known  society  journal,  when  her  eye 
caught  an  announcement  that  almost  stilled  the  beating  of 
her  heart.  The  paragraph  appeared  among  many  others  of 
a  similar  character,  and  stated  that  a  marriage  had  been 
arranged  between  'Sir  Gilbert  Thornhaugh,  Bart.,  of  Darn- 
forth  Chase,  Cumberland,  and  Curzon  Street,  Mayfair,  and 
Julia,  eldest  daughter  of  Throgmorton  Lothbury,  Esq.,  of 
Lombard  Place,  Leicestershire,  and  Capel  Court  in  the 
City.'  She  sat  there  like  one  in  a  dream,  reading  and  re- 
reading the  words  that  proclaimed  so  tersely  Sir  Gilbert's 
villany,  until  its  letters  seemed  to  be  imprinted  on  her  brain 
in  letters  of  fire.  She  saw  everything  clearly  now.  The 
generous  sympathy,  the  offer  of  marriage,  the  eloquent 
vows,  were  all  false,  false  as  the  wicked  heart  that  had 
devised  these  infamous  means  to  an  infamous  end.  She  had 
simply  been  his  victim,  his  dupe,  to  be  cast  aside  like  a 
broken  toy  whenever  his  fancy  wearied.  How  could  he 
take  advantage  of  her  helplessness  to  do  her  this  grievous 
wrong  !  In  the  bitterness  of  her  mental  anguish  she  cried 
aloud,  but  no  tears  came  to  the  dry  and  haggard  eyes  to 
relieve  the  pent-up  agony  of  her  soul. 

"The  dull  gray  light  of  the  winter's  day  was  fast  fading 
out  of  the  leaden  sky  when  Sir  Gilbert  returned  from  his 
drive.  He  entered  flicking  his  polished  boots  with  a  thin 
riding-cane  and  whistling  an  operatic  air.  As  he  came  up 
and  laid  his  riding-cane  upon  the  table  she  rose  and  stood 
before  him  with  the  paper  in  her  hand.  She  held  it  out  to 
him,  pointing  to  the  paragraph.  '  Is  this  true,  Gilbert  ?'  she 
asked,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  unlike  her  own.  He  took  the 
paper,  and  she  could  see  his  dark  face  flush  to  the  temples 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  39 

as  he  slowly  read  the  item.  And  then  he  laughed  a  short, 
nervous  little  laugh,  and  asked  her  with  studied  irrelevancy 
if  she  would  go  with  him  to  the  theatre  after  dinner.  '  This 
is  no  trifling  matter,  Sir  Gilbert,'  said  Eleanor.  '  You  asked 
me  in  a  moment  of  sore  distress  to  be  your  wife,  and  I, 
homeless  and  utterly  friendless  as  I  was,  gave  myself  to 
your  keeping.  I  came  to  this  house  trusting  in  your  sense 
of  honor,  and  relying  on  your  promise  to  consummate  our 
marriage  as  speedily  as  possible.  You  have  advanced 
various  quibbles  to  delay  the  ceremony,  and  I  had  begun  to 
doubt  your  honesty  of  purpose  before  I  saw  this  paragraph. 
Why  did  you  deceive  me  in  this  shameful  way  ?  Why  did 
you  ask  me  to  be  your  wife  ?     Why ' 

"'Excuse  me,  my  dear;  I  asked  you  nothing  of  the 
sort, '  interrupted  Sir  Gilbert.  '  I  simply  asked  to  be  al- 
lowed to  be  your  protector,  and,  I  may  add — that  is  to  say, 
I  thought  that  under  the  circumstances  you  fully  under- 
stood me.  And  I  really  do  not  see,'  he  continued,  in  a 
cold  matter-of-fact  tone, — '  I  really  do  not  see  why  you 
cannot  accept  the  situation  like  a  sensible  woman.  Here 
you  are  mistress  of  the  house,  with  servants  and  every  con- 
venience, and  can  remain  so  as  long  as  you  choose,  I  am 
head  over  heels  in  debt,  and  am  compelled  to  make  this 
marriage  to  satisfy  my  creditors.  Of  course  I  love  you, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  if  I  am  to  be  tied  for  life  to 
the  angular  Miss  Lothbury,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  my 
spending  most  of  my  time  with  you  in  this  charmingly 
secluded  neighborhood  ;  so  let  us  kiss  and  make  friends.' 
Eleanor's  proud  spirit  was  stung  to  fury  at  his  cool  villany, 
and  as  he  stepped  towards  her  she  took  the  riding-cane  from 
the  table  and  struck  him  with  all  her  strength  across  the 
cheek, — a  blow  that  marked  his  face  from  ear  to  chin  with 
a  thin  purple  weal.  She  hurried  from  the  room  to  her  own 
chamber,  where  she  gathered  together  a  few  articles  of 
clothing  in  a  small  valise,  and  then  quietly  left  the  house. 

"You,  Francis,  who  know  the  immensity  of  London, 
can  perhaps  imagine  the  poor  girl's  feelings  as  she  stepped 
forth  into  its  endless  labyrinth  of  streets,  homeless,  friend- 
less, and  now  without  honor.  Her  first  care  was  to  find 
shelter  for  the  night.  To  this  end  she  bought  a  paper  from 
a  newsboy  and  read  its  columns  beneath  the  light  of  a  street- 


40        IN  THE  "never  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

lamp.  She  selected  an  advertisement  at  random,  hailed  a 
passing  hansom,  and  was  soon  beneath  a  roof.  I  need  not 
go  into  all  the  weary  details  of  the  next  few  weeks,  how  she 
answered  innumerable  advertisements  in  the  hope  of  obtain- 
ing employment,  only  to  find  that  the  fact  of  her  friendless- 
ness  was  looked  upon  as  being  cause  for  suspicion  rather 
than  sympathy,  and  that  no  one  would  accept  her  services 
without  recommendations,  of  which,  of  course,  she  had 
none.  Her  slender  store  of  money  was  soon  exhausted, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  she  had  to  pawn  her  trinkets  to 
satisfy  the  cravings  of  hunger. 

' '  At  last  there  came  a  day  when  she  again  found  herself 
in  the  streets  of  London,  this  time  absolutely  penniless. 
She  wandered  aimlessly  along  through  the  crowded  thor- 
oughfares during  that  bleak  March  day,  and  evening  found 
her  cold  and  hungry  on  Westminster  Bridge.  She  stood 
in  one  of  the  embrasures  watching  the  river  fast  flowing 
seaward,  its  dark  rippling  bosom  gleaming  with  the  shat- 
tered shafts  of  light  from  a  thousand  lamps.  In  her 
brighter  days  she  had  sometimes  read  of  wretched  beings 
who  had  sought  nepenthe  in  its  cold  embrace,  and  the 
thought  of  these  at  this  time  filled  her  mind  with  a 
nameless  horror. 

"She  tore  herself  away  from  the  hideous  fascination  of 
that  dark  swirling  flood  and  mingled  again  with  the  great 
city's  ceaseless  tide  of  life  until  she  came  to  Waterloo  Place, 
where  Vice  nightly  holds  her  shameless  parade.  She  shud- 
dered as  she  passed  those  crowds  of  painted,  loud-voiced 
things  that  throng  its  pavements,  and  hurried  on  into  the 
roar  of  Piccadilly,  faint  and  weary  with  increasing  hunger. 
At  the  door  of  St.  James's  Cafe  two  young  men  in  even- 
ing dress  stood  talking.  As  she  passed  beneath  the  garish 
light  of  the  entrance-lamps  one  of  them  turned  and  followed 
her,  and  in  another  moment  he  was  walking  by  her  side. 
What  he  said  she  did  not  know  ;  she  was  only  conscious  of 
clinging  to  him  for  support  and  telling  him,  in  a  voice  that 
was  weak  and  faint  with  hunger,  that  she  had  eaten  nothing 
for  three  days.  He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  into  Regent 
Street,  and  almost  before  she  could  collect  her  senses  she 
was  seated  at  a  table  in  the  Cafe  Royal. 

"It  was  not  until  the  pangs  of  hunger  were  appeased 


IN  THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  41 

that  the  hideous  thought  occurred  to  her  that  her  com- 
panion evidently  took  her  for  a  femme  de  pave.  She 
glanced  at  him,  and,  seeing-  that  he,  possessed  an  honest 
face  and  kindly  eyes,  she  determined  to  tell  him  her  pitiful 
story  and  trust  to  his  magnanimity.  He  heard  her  through- 
out with  manifest  surprise  and   sympathy.     He  told   her 

that  he  was  a  surgeon  on  the  staff  of  the  Hospital, 

and  that  he  believed  he  could  find  her  employment  as  a 
nurse.  He  gave  her  his  card,  and  after  delicately  pressing 
upon  her  a  sum  of  money  to  meet  her  immediate  needs,  he 

took  his  leave,  telling  her  to  call  at  the  Hospital  on 

the  following  afternoon.  The  young  surgeon  was  as  good 
as  his  word,  and  he  obtained  a  subordinate  position  for  her 
in  his  own  hospital. 

"  In  her  new  role  Eleanor  was  brought  face  to  face  with 
human  suffering  in  all  its  ghastly  forms,  and  her  own  lot 
seemed  comparatively  cheerful  by  contrast  with  that  of  the 
helpless  beings  to  whose  wants  she  was  called  upon  to  min- 
ister. The  life  was  monotonous,  the  surroundings  depress- 
ing, but  when  she  remembered  her  bitter  experience  in  the 
streets  of  London,  she  was  thankful  even  for  such  meagre 
comforts  as  were  vouchsafed  to  her.  She  brought  such  an 
amount  of  intelligence  and  zeal  to  bear  upon  her  new  duties, 
and  did  the  work  intrusted  to  her  with  such  assiduity  and 
fidelity,  that  promotion,  such  as  it  was,  came  rapidly.  At 
the  end  of  six  months  she  had  almost  become  reconciled  to 
her  lot,  when  an  event  occurred  that  again  changed  the 
current  of  her  life.  This  was  the  birth  of  her  child,  a 
nameless  little  waif  that  breathed  but  one  short  hour  and 
died.  Her  sister  nurses,  severely  superior  in  the  dignity  of 
virtue  never  assailed,  jealous  of  her  beauty,  and  envious  of 
the  marked  courtesy  with  which  she  was  always  treated  by 
the  visiting  surgeons,  who  had  learned  her  story,  raised 
their  voices  in  general  condemnation,  and  protested  to  the 
resident  physician  against  the  contamination  of  further  asso- 
ciation with  her.  At  this  juncture  the  young  surgeon  who 
had  first  assisted  her,  and  who  throughout  had  remained 
her  friend,  again  came  to  her  aid  by  obtaining  for  her  a 
position  as  attendant  to  an  invalid  lady  who  was  going  out 
to  Australia.  Her  mistress  died  shortly  after  her  arrival  in 
the  colonies,  and  she  was  again  thrown  upon  the  tender 


42  IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

mercies  of  the  world.  She  found  employment  as  a  barmaid 
with  a  hotel-keeper  in  Sydney.  This  man  and  his  wife 
were  very  kind  to  her  in  their  rude  way,  and  when  the 
Kimberley  gold  rush  broke  out  and  they  went  north  she 
went  with  them,  and — and  that  is  all." 

"  Helen,"  said  Lyndon,  breaking  the  silence  that  ensued 
when  she  so  abruptly  ceased,  "  you  have  been  speaking  of 
yourself.     Why  did  you  tell  me  this  sad  story  ?' ' 

"  Because  my  life  is  empty  and  wretched,"  she  answered. 
"We  have  been  such  friends,  you  and  I,  and  I  thought 
perhaps  you  might  learn  to — to  care  for  me, — most  men 
do,"  she  added,  with  a  wan  little  smile.  "I  told  you  be- 
cause I  wished  you  to  know  my  past,  that  you  might  see 
how  unworthy  I  am  of  any  man's  regard.  I  told  you 
because  I  need  your  sympathy — because — because — oh, 
Francis,  can  you  not  see?     Because  I   love  you!" 

Ere  Lyndon  could  reply  she  rose  and  hurried  up  the 
narrow  pathway  that  led  to  the  "Golden  Dawn."  She  did 
not  see  the  crouching  figure  in  the  belt  of  myall  as  she 
passed,  or  the  bright  gleam  of  the  moonlight  on  the  pistol- 
barrel  pointed  at  the  figure  of  him  she  had  left  seated  on 
the  rock. 


IV. 

While  Helen  was  telling  the  sad  episode  in  her  life  to 
Lyndon,  the  miners  in  the  bar  of  the  "Golden  Dawn" 
were  engaged  in  discussing  the  prospects  of  getting  a  pack- 
train  through  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  rugged 
mountain  and  burning  sand  intervening  between  the  Gully 
and  the  packers'  camp  at  Damper  Creek  before  Christmas, 
which  was  now  near  at  hand. 

"If  some  one  don't  push  through  this  week,  we'll  not 
get  mooch  of  a  Chreestmas  dinner,"  said  old  Van  Steen, 
whose  rubicund  visage  was  barely  visible  through  the  clouds 
of  smoke  arising  from  an  enormous  pipe. 

"I  rec'lect  spendin'  a  pretty  hard  Chris'mas  on  Peak 
Downs,"  drawled  Twenty-Two- Year-Old  Scotty,  as  he  pa- 
tiently whittled  a  particularly  hard  fig  of  tobacco  with  a 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  43 

particularly  dull  knife;  "and  if  I  don't  disremember,"  he 
added,  with  a  reflective  air,  "we  didn't  have  nothing  mor'n 
weevilly  hardtack  for  nigh  onto  a  month." 

"  That's  nothin',"  said  Harte  ;  "I  spent  Chris' mas  one 
time  in  the  'Never  Never,'  up  in  the  Northern  Territory, 
and  me  and  a  black  fellow  lived  for  ten  days  on  a  handful  of 
wild  plums  and  a  bandicoot."* 

"Talkin'  of  Chris' mas  dinners,"  said  Blue  Peter,  with  a 
prefatory  oath,  as  he  lounged  over  the  bar,  "  I  was  on  the 
Condamine,  one  time, — I  disremember  the  date  ezac'ly, 
but  it  was  in  Joshua  Peter  Bell's  f  time,  anyway, — and  me 

and  a  man  named  Tim   Shea, — the  — est  homehest 

son-of-a-gun  that  ever  chawed  damper, — in  fact,  the  station 

hands  used  to  say  he  was  that  ugly  he  would 

scare  a  blind  cow.  Well,  as  I  was  a-goin'  to  say,  we  had 
knocked  up  a  big  check  together,  and  was  comin'  down  to 

Brisbane  to  spend  it.     You  never  seen  such  a 

season  as  that  was.  It  was  the  year  of  the  big  flood,  and 
afore  the  rains  come  the  weather  was  that  unsettled  it  would 
ha'  set  a  saint  a-swearin'.  One  day  it  would  be  a  hundred 
and  ten  in  the  shade,  and  the  next  it  would  be  rainin'  cats 
and  dogs. 

' '  Well,  the  rains  come  on  long  before  we  got  down  to 

the  coast,  and  we  had  the  all-firedest time  you 

ever  hearn  tell  of  Stations  was  scarce  in  them  days,  and 
we  had  to  make  our  flour  and  tea  pan  out  as  best  we  could. 
Chris'  mas  Day  come,  and  we  was  still  on  the  Wallaby.     It 

had  been  rainin'  like all  day,  and  we  was  that  wet  we 

looked  like  we  might  ha'  camped  in  a  creek,  and,  what  was 
worse,  our  flour  was,  too.  The  horses  had  about  give  out, 
and  we  was  thinkin'  of  makin'  a  wet  camp  for  the  night, 
when  Tim  Shea  sez,  sez  he,  '  Peter,'  sez  he,  'there  used  to 

be  a man  what  kep'  a  store  on  the  stock  road  by 

the  name  of  Jake  Miller,  and  if  I  ain't  miscalkilatin','  sez 
he,  '  it's  about  two  mile  this  side  of  us.'  Well,  to  come  to 
the  p'  int,  we  struck  across  for  the  store,  and  sure  enough  we 
made  it  about  an  hour  after  dark,  and  of  the  all-fired  con- 
sarns  I  ever  seen  called  a  store,  that  was  the  all-firedest. 

*  A  small  burrowing  animal. 

t  A  well-known  Queensland  squatter  of  his  day. 


44  IN  THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

There  was  nothin'  in  it  but  two  or  three  tins  o'  canned 
stuff,  a  box  o'  lamp-glasses,  a  bar  or  two  o'  soap,  and  sech 

like  odds  and ends.     I  hearn  afterwards  the  store  was 

on'y  a  blind,  and  that  Jake  was  a-runnin'  a  whiskey-still 
about  a  mile  or  so  down  in  the  scrub,  and  used  to  do  a 
roarin'  trade  with  stockmen  on  the  road.  Well,  we  walks 
in,  and  mighty  glad  we  was  to  get  a  dry  roof  over  our 
heads.  Jake  was  a-settin'  one  side  a  blazin'  fire,  and  a  big 
old  cat  sat  op' site  to  him  on  the  other. 

"  '  Evenin',  stranger,'  sez  I.  '  Welcome,'  sez  he,  movin' 
for  us  to  draw  near  the  fire  and  haulin'  out  a  bench  for  us 
to  set  on.  Then  he  lifts  down  two  billys  from  a  hook  over 
the  fireplace,  and  shoves  a  bottle  over  to  us  and  motions 

us  to  help  ourselves,  which  we  did,  and  mighty 

quick,  I  can  tell  you.  But  we  was  feelin'  more  hungry 
than  thirsty,  and  after  talkin'  permiscus-like  for  half  an 
hour,  I  seen  Jake  was  makin'  no  signs  of  gettin'  supper,  so 
I  sez,  'Jake,'  I  sez,  'ain't  there  nothin'  to  eat,'  I  sez,  'in 
this  yere humpy  ?' 

"  'Eat,'  he  sez;  'why,'  sez  he,  'I  ain't,'  he  sez,  'had 
nothin'  to  eat,'  he  sez,  'for  a  week,  barrin'  a  bottle  of 
Crosse  and  Blackwell's  pickles  and  a  tame  magpie;  and,' 
he  sez,  '  I  don't  expect  to  get  nothin'  for  another  week,  if 
the  coach  don't  come  by  on  Saturday,  onless,'  he  sez,  'I 
tackle  them  there  cans  o'  sweet  stuff  in  the  store,  which 
they're  not  the  most  nourishin' est  thing  in  the  world,' 
he  sez. 

"  'It's  pretty  tough, '  I  sez,  'to  go  without  somethin'  to 
eat,  especially  bein'  as  it's  Chris' mas  Day,'  I  sez. 

"  'Any  way,'  sez  Tim  Shea,  'we've  got  a  morsel  o'  wet 
flour,'  and   he  unrolls  his  swag,  and  sure  enough  it  was 

wet,  for  there  was  a sight  more  water  in  the  swag 

than  flour. 

"  '  You  can't  make  no  damper  out  o'  that,'  sez  Jake. 

"'Can't  I?'  sez  Tim  Shea.  'Why,'  sez  he,  'me  and 
another  feller  on  the  Warrego  one  time  made  a  damper  out 
o'  three  wax  candles  and  a  hatful  o'  sawdust,  and,'  sez  he, 
'  mighty  good  it  was,  too,  barrin'  it  was  that  tough  it  was 
like  bitin'  a  piece  out  o'  the  edge  o'  a  billy-can.' 

"  '  By  thunder,'  sez  Jake,  jumpin'  up,  'I  clean  forgot ; 
we  can  have  a good  meal,  after  all. '     With  that 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  45 

he  goes  out  into  a  room  at  the  back,  and  the  cat  gets  up 
with  her  tail  in  the  air  and  walks  out  with  him,  rubbin'  her- 
self agen  his  leg  as  though  she  knowed  there  was  some- 
thin'  to  eat  in  there  as  well. 

"  'One  o'  you  fellers  go  out  into  the  store,'  sings  out 
Jake,  '  and  get  a  bottle  o'  dried  sage  and  a  bottle  o'  them 

pickled onions,  and  chop  'em  up  for  dressin'.'     We 

done  as  he  said,  and  by  and  by  he  comes  in  with  what 
looked  like  a  small  bandicoot,  but  it  was  skinned,  and  its 
legs  and  head  was  off,  so  we  couldn't  tell.  'We'll  have 
some  stewed  rabbit  for  onct,'  sez  he. 

"'Rabbit,'  I  sez.  '77;<rj/ ain't  across  the  border,  sure- 
/zV, '  I  sez,  for  the  last  I  hearn  tell  o'  them  they  was  two 
hundred  mile  south  of  it. 

' '  '  We'  11  eat  first  and  talk  afterwards, '  sez  he,  short-like, 
and  he  stuffs  the  rabbit  with  the  chopped  sage  and  onions, 
and  skewers  it  up  with  a  splinter  o'  wood,  and  shoves  it  in 
a  big  iron  pot  to  boil,  while  Tim  Shea  spread  out  the  wet 
flour  in  a  pan  in  front  o'  the  fire  to  dry. 

"Well,  I  never  tasted  no  better  meal  than  that  there 

rabbit.     True,  there  wasn't  much  of  it  for  three 

hungry  like  us,  and  there  was  soon  nothin'  left  but 

the  bones. 

"  '  Where's  the cat  ?'  sez  Tim  Shea  ;   '  she  can 

eat  the  bones.' 

"  '  She'll  never  eat  no  more  bones,'  sez  Jake,  in  a  solium 
sort  o'  voice. 

"'Why?'  I  sez. 

"  'Why,'  he  sez,  sez  he,  speakin'  slow-like  and  lookin' 
me  straight  in  the  eye,    'didn't  you,'   he  sez,    'notice  no 

kind  of  a  pecooliar  flaviour,'  he  sez,  '  about  that  there ■ 

rabbit  ?'     And  then  we  seen  through  it. 

"  '  Well,'  I  sez,  '  I've  et  many  cur'ous  things  in  my  time, 
but,'  I  sez,  '  I'm  damned,'  I  sez,  'if  ever  I  et  a  boiled  cat 

stuffed  with  sage  and  onions  for  a  Chris' mas  dinner 

afore. ' 

"  'As  for  me,'  sez  Tim  Shea,  pickin'  his  teeth  with  a 
fork  sorrowful-like,  seein'  there  was  no  more,  '  I  on'y  wish 

that  there  cat  had  a  litter  o'   kittens,  so's  we  could 

make  'em  up  into  a  pie  with  the  flour  for  breakfast.'  " 

Blue  Peter  paused  at  this  point  and  took  a  deep  gulp  out 


46  IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY." 

of  the  black  bottle  which  he  kept  in  a  corner  of  the  shelf 
for  his  own  especial  benefit,  and  then  observing  a  some- 
what incredulous  smile  on  the  faces  of  certain  "new 
chums,"  whose  experience  of  the  exigencies  of  bush  cater- 
ing had  yet  to  be  learned,  he  was  proceeding  to  assert  the 
truth  of  his  story  with  a  lengthy  string  of  highly  original 
oaths,  when  a  pistol-shot  rang  out  upon  the  still  night  air. 
This  circumstance  in  itself  would  have  occasioned  no  sur- 
prise, as  the  interchange  of  bullets  was  a  matter  of  frequent 
occurrence  in  the  lower  camp,  to  say  nothing  of  the  playful 
eccentricities  of  Bristol  Bill  the  packer,  who,  in  the  absence 
of  an  extinguisher,  was  in  the  habit  of  placing  his  slush- 
lamp  on  a  stump  in  front  of  his  tent,  and  neatly  snuffing  it 
out  with  a  revolver  at  twenty  paces  before  retiring  for  the 
night.  But  the  shot  was  followed  in  a  few  minutes  by  a 
shriek  so  wild  and  piercing  that  every  one  in  front  of  the 
bar  rushed  out  to  see  whence  it  came,  and  Blue  Peter's 
profane  asseverations  of  undeviating  veracity  were  made 
to  the  empty  air. 

The  scream  had  been  heard  in  every  tent  in  the  upper 
camp,  and  as  the  men  from  the  "Golden  Dawn"  poured 
out  into  the  open  air  they  met  miners  running  from  every 
point  towards  the  spot  whence  the  sound  had  appeared  to 
come.  A  loud  coo-ee  some  distance  down  the  road  an- 
nounced a  discovery,  and  the  whole  crowd  of  excited  men 
ran  in  that  direction. 

Just  beyond  the  clump  of  myall,  and  close  by  the  spot 
where  the  path  to  the  lower  camp  branched  off  from  the 
road  running  along  the  wall  of  the  gully,  they  found  Lyn- 
don bleeding  profusely  from  a  wound  near  the  shoulder, 
and  supported  in  the  arms  of  Helen  and  Bristol  Bill  the 
packer.  A  hundred  eager  questions  were  asked,  but  Harte, 
stepping  to  the  front,  waved  back  the  curious  crowd. 
"Ask  no  questions  now,"  he  said.  "Here,  one  of  you 
chaps  give  me  a  hand.  We'll  carry  him  down  to  Bristol 
Bill's  place  ;  it's  the  nearest.  And  a  pair  of  you  run  up  to 
the  doctor's  tent.  He  was  drunk  three  hours  ago  ;  if  he 
ain't  sober  now,  chuck  a  couple  of  buckets  of  water  over 
him  ;  but  bring  him  along,  anyhow."  Harte' s  orders  were 
obeyed  with  alacrity.  When  he  and  another  miner  pre- 
pared to   lift   Lyndon's  limp   and    helpless   form,    Helen 


IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY."  47 

pleaded  with  them  that  he  might  be  taken  to  the  hotel, 
where  she  could  nurse  him.  It  won't  do,  miss,"  said 
Harte.  "It's  half  a  mile  to  the  '  Dawn  ;'  he  might  bleed 
to  death  while  he  was  carrying  there,  for  God  knows  how 
badly  he's  hurt.  Bristol  Bill's  humpy  is  just  behind  that 
big  rock  ahead  of  us,  and  it  ain't  a  hundred  yards  away." 
Helen  admitted  the  force  of  Harte' s  reasoning,  and  Lyndon 
was  carefully  borne  by  the  two  stout  miners  to  Bristol  Bill's 
abode.  They  laid  him  tenderly  on  the  rude  bed,  and 
Harte  at  once  proceeded  to  cut  away  the  clothing  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  wound.  The  ball  had  penetrated  the 
right  arm  just  above  the  flexure  of  the  elbow,  and,  passing 
behind  the  biceps  muscle,  had  emerged  on  the  inner  side  of 
the  arm.  The  sight  of  Lyndon's  ghastly  and  clammy  face 
made  Helen  sick  with  fear  ;  but  her  knowledge  of  hospital 
practice  here  stood  her  in  good  stead.  She  knelt  beside 
the  bed  and  compressed  the  brachial  artery  pending  the 
doctor's  arrival,  and  her  fears  were  in  some  measure  allayed 
when  she  saw  that  the  hemorrhage  was  at  once  reduced  in 
volume. 

After  what  seemed  to  her  an  interminable  delay,  Le 
Harne  arrived.  He  had  been  found  in  his  tent  sleeping 
off  the  effects  of  a  protracted  debauch.  But  as  soon  as  he 
had  been  made  to  understand  the  gravity  of  the  case  he 
had  pulled  himself  together  and  hurried  down  to  the 
wounded  man.  It  was  impossible  to  look  at  the  doctor, 
as  he  stood  beside  the  bed,  without  feeling  impressed  with 
his  outward  personality.  His  pale,  sharply-chiselled  face, 
albeit  sadly  marred  by  the  ravages  of  dissipation,  was 
the  face  of  the  student  and  scholar,  and  his  fine  eyes, 
though  bloodshot  from  the  effects  of  drink,  were  bright 
with  the  calm,  steadfast  look  of  one  who  feels  that  he  has 
confidence  in  himself  ' '  I  have  no  doubt  the  brachial  artery 
is  injured,"  he  said,  when  he  had  examined  the  wound; 
"and,"  he  added  to  Helen,  "he  would  certainly  have 
bled  to  death  before  I  got  here  had  you  not  applied  com- 
pression. I  shall  have  to  cut  down  to  the  artery  and  ligate 
it.  I  have  performed  the  operation  several  times  before  ; 
it  is  not  difficult." 

His  calm  tone  raised  the  spirits  of  his  hearers,  who  had 
the  fullest  faith  in  his  surgical  skill.     That  it  was  of  a  high 


48  IN    THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

order  he  had  amply  proved  by  the  successful  treatment  of 
several  severe  accidents  that  had  happened  in  the  camp. 
Even  his  instruments  bore  testimony  to  his  talent.  The 
superb  set  he  owned  was  the  gift  of  a  grateful  patient  upon 
whom,  when  in  England,  he  had  performed  an  exceedingly 
dangerous  operation,  after  other  surgeons  had  declined  to 
undertake  the  risk. 

Bristol  Bill's  humpy,  though  roomier  than  the  major- 
ity of  habitations  in  the  Gully,  was  by  no  means  the  place 
one  would  have  chosen  for  the  performance  of  a  surgical 
operation.  The  space  was  limited,  the  light  was  bad.  At 
the  far  end  of  the  rude  dwelling  lay  the  wounded  man 
supine,  in  the  condition  of  profound  prostration  induced 
by  excessive  loss  of  blood.  On  one  side  knelt  Helen, 
still  compressing  the  brachial  artery  ;  on  the  other  stood 
Harte,  his  stern  face  set  and  gloomy,  watching  Le  Harne 
as  he  rapidly  prepared  the  instruments  and  other  ac- 
cessories, while  gathered  around  the  door  of  the  humpy 
were  groups  of  miners  anxiously  awaiting  the  doctor's  ver- 
dict. Everything  being  ready,  Le  Harne  cut  down  through 
the  tissues  and  laid  bare  the  injured  artery.  He  picked  out 
the  coagulum  of  blood  and  a  few  fragments  of  cloth  from 
the  wound,  and  skilfully  passing  two  ligatures,  one  above 
and  one  below  the  aperture,  in  the  arterial  tunics,  he  secured 
the  vessel  in  the  wound,  and  then  divided  it  between  the 
ligatures. 

"  We  have  two  things  to  fear  now,"  he  said,  as  he  finished 
dressing  the  wound,  ' '  gangrene  and  secondary  hemorrhage  ; 
but  as  the  humerus  is  intact  and  there  are  no  complications, 
I  do  not  think  we  need  anticipate  the  former.  The  chief 
danger  we  have  to  apprehend  is  secondary  hemorrhage. 
But  with  careful  nursing  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  pull  him 
through.  If  you  will  arrange  the  nursing,"  he  continued  to 
Harte,  "  I  will  go  back  and  prepare  some  stimulants." 
And  giving  such  general  directions  as  he  considered  neces- 
sary, Le  Harne  took  his  leave. 

"Now,"  said  Harte,  shutting  the  door  and  addressing 
Helen  and  Bristol  Bill,  "the  first  thing  I  want  to  know  is, 
how  did  this  affair  happen  ?" 

Helen  told  how  she  had  been  for  a  walk  with  Lyndon  as 
far  as  the  clump  of  myall,  and  how  she  had  left  him  seated 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  49 

on  the  rock.  She  stated  that  she  had  not  got  more  than  a 
hundred  yards  away  when  she  heard  the  shot.  The  sound 
had  appeared  to  come  from  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
the  spot  she  had  just  left,  but  a  sharp  bend  in  the  path  hid 
the  place  from  view.  An  uneasy  feeling  in  her  mind  that 
something  was  wrong  had  prompted  her  to  return,  and  she 
had  found  Lyndon  bleeding  and  insensible  at  the  foot  of  the 
rock  on  which  she  had  left  him  a  few  moments  before. 

"I'd  jest  finished  my  pipe,"  said  Bristol  Bill,  "  and  was 
comin'  up  to  the  '  Dawn'  when  I  heerd  a  gun.  Like  the 
young  lady  here,  I  couldn't  see  nothin',  the  road  bein'  so 
powerful  full  o'  turns.  But  as  I  got  round  the  big  rock 
yonder  I  seen  her  white  dress  as  she  come  down  the  path 
from  the  '  Dawn,'  and  the  next  minute  I  heerd  her  skreek, 
and  I  knowed  somethin'  was  wrong.  I  run  up  to  her,  and 
when  I  seen  how  things  was  I  give  the  coo-ee  that  brought 
the  chaps  down.    Mor'  n  that  I  know  nothin'  and  see  nothin' . ' ' 

For  a  moment  Harte  was  silent.  Then  turning  to  Bristol 
Bill,  he  said,  "There's  somethin'  back  o'  this  that  we  must 
find  out.  Just  ask  the  boys  outside  to  step  up  to  the  '  Dawn. ' 
I'll  join  'em  in  a  minute,  and  at  the  meetin*  we'll  see  what's 
to  be  done."  To  Helen  he  said,  "  Of  course,  I'm  goin'  to 
nurse  him,  miss:  I'm  his  mate,  as  you  know  ;  but  I  want 
to  step  down  to  the  lower  camp  for  a  bit,  and  I'd  feel  obliged 
if  you'd  sit  by  him  till  I  get  back." 

"WilHngly,"  replied  Helen.  "I  intend  to  share  the 
nursing  with  you,  for  he  will  need  all  the  attention  we  can 
give  him." 

Harte  shook  her  hand  in  silence  and  then  stepped  softly 
out  on  his  way  to  the  lower  camp.  Meanwhile,  the  miners 
of  the  upper  camp  accompanied  Bristol  Bill  in  a  body  to 
the  "Golden  Dawn,"  where  during  Harte' s  absence  the 
event  of  the  night  became  the  subject  of  an  animated  con- 
versation. Lyndon  had  been  such  a  universal  favorite  in 
the  camp  that  every  man  experienced  a  desire  to  avenge 
the  outrage.  The  general  consensus  of  opinion  inclined 
to  the  belief  that  Ricardo  was  the  assassin.  His  hatred  of 
Lyndon  had  long  been  a  matter  of  notoriety,  and  this  fact 
alone  was,  in  the  minds  of  the  excited  miners,  sufficient  to 
condemn  him  without  further  proof  Such  a  unanimity 
of  suspicion  would,  in  many  communities,  have  procured 
^      d  5 


50        IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

Ricardo  a  long  rope  and  a  short  shrift  without  any  prelim- 
inaries whatever  ;  but  the  Australian  bushman,  though  in 
many  respects  a  wild  and  lawless  fellow,  is  at  heart  opposed 
to  mob  law,  and  the  swift  judicial  methods  of  Judge  Lynch 
are  rarely  resorted  to  even  in  the  remotest  settlements,  in 
the  absence  of  direct  proof  of  guilt.  Still,  there  were  not 
a  few  at  the  meeting  who  maintained  that  the  evidence  was 
strong  enough  to  warrant  them  in  hanging  Ricardo  to  the 
nearest  tree,  and  Blue  Peter  intimated,  with  many  wholly 
unnecessary  expletives,  that  it  would  be  well  for  the  lower 
camp,  on  purificatory  principles,  to  hang  half  a  dozen  more 
of  the  inhabitants  along  with  him  while  they  were  about  it. 
The  discussion  was  at  its  height  when  Harte  entered. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  as  he  took  his  seat,  "  I  asked  you  for 
to  come  up  here  to-night,  so's  we  might  talk  over  this  affair 
and  see  what  was  to  be  done.  If  any  of  you  has  anythin' 
to  say  I'd  like  to  hear  it."  Whereupon  up  rose  an  Ameri- 
can miner, — a  sallow,  attenuated  individual  with  a  sepulchral 
voice,  who  represented  the  party  advocating  the  immediate 
hanging  of  Ricardo. 

"  We  all  know  that  the  young  Britisher  hadn't  an  enemy 
in  the  camp  outside  of  Ricardo,"  he  said,  with  peculiar  in- 
tonation, "and  some  of  us  have  heard  Ricardo  say  down 
in  the  '  Nugget'  that  he  would  get  square  for  that  knock 
down  he  got  some  day.  Maybe  this  ain't  evidence,  but  I'd 
plank  my  bottom  dollar  on  the  notion  that  Ricardo  done 
the  shooting,  and  there's  lots  more  of  my  way  of  thinking. 
I  ain't  got  nothing  to  say  agenst  this  country  nor  its  ways. 
The  country's  used  me  well  and  I'm  doing  well  in  it.  But 
its  away  behind  America  in  some  things.  Why,  Lord  bless 
me,  out  in  Arizona  we'd  have  had  that  Ricardo  comfortably 
hung  half  an  hour  ago,  and  I  move  we  nominate  a  com- 
mittee of  four  to  go  down  and  hang  him  right  away. ' ' 

"  I  second  that  there motion,"  said  Blue  Peter, 

with  a  tremendous  oath,  amid  a  chorus  of  "  Bravo,  Yank  !" 

"  Boys,"  said  Harte,  rising,  "you  all  know  that  Lyndon 
is  my  mate.  Me  and  him  has  been  through  thick  and  thin 
together  for  four  years  now,  and  I'd  sooner  lose  my, right 
arm  than  see  him  die.     You  all  know,  too,  that  I  don't, 

and  never  did,  take  no  stock  in  that  d d  Portuguee.     If 

I  knew  for  certain  that  he  done  the  shootin',  I'd  kill  him 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.         5I 

in  his  tracks  same  as  I  would  a  prowlin'  dingo.  But  I  ain't 
certain.  I've  been  down  to  the  'Nugget,'  and  Ricardo  is 
in  bed  ;  I  seen  him  there.  He  says  he's  got  fever  and  ague, 
and  Stumpy  Tom  he  says  his  partner's  never  been  outside 
the  'Nugget'  since  mornin'.  Like  the  rest  of  you,  I've  a 
strong  notion  he's  lyin'.  But  I  will  not  act  on  a  notion, 
and  I'll  tell  you  why.  Once  down  to  Victoria  I  was  the 
cause  of  gettin'  an  innocent  man  twenty  years.  I  swore  to 
what  I  thought  was  right,  but  years  afterwards  I  accidentally 
found  out  I  was  wrong.  But  it  was  too  late  then  :  the  man 
had  died  in  prison,  and  I  ain't  felt  easy  in  my  mind  since. 
So  I  move  we  wait  for  a  day  or  two  till  my  partner  gets  his 
senses  again.  He  may  have  seen  somethin'  before  he  was 
shot.  Meantime,  let  us  do  what  we  can  to  find  out  more 
about  the  case." 

Harte's  motion  was  received  with  a  hum  of  disapproval. 
Then  "the  Professor"  arose.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  his 
calm,  clear  voice,  "let  me  say  a  few  words.  Harte  is  right. 
In  view  of  the  wide-spread  popularity  of  our  injured  friend, 
suspicion  is  not  unnaturally  directed  to  the  only  man  who  is 
known  to  have  borne  him  any  ill-will.  But  remember  that 
mere  suspicion  unsupported  by  anything  of  a  tangible  nature 
is  not  evidence, — not  even  circumstantial  evidence.  I  per- 
haps speak  feelingly,  for  in  years  gone  by  I  myself  was  the 
victim  of  a  foul  and  unjust  suspicion.  But  no  matter. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  mystery  in  this  case,  and  an  ac- 
cused person  is,  I  believe,  always  entitled  to  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt.  Do  not  let  passion  and  prejudice  rob  you  of 
your  sense  of  justice.  The  spirit  of  the  laws  which  govern 
the  more  settled  districts  in  this  great  country  should  pre- 
vail even  in  this  remote  spot.  In  a  few  days  representatives 
of  those  laws  in  the  person  of  a  resident  magistrate  and  a 
posse  of  mounted  police  will  arrive  here.  In  the  mean 
time  Ricardo  can  be  watched,  and  if  at  any  time  he  should 
attempt  to  leave  the  Gully,  or  any  evidence  be  forthcoming 
against  him,  he  can  be  arrested  to  await  his  trial  before  a 
properly  constituted  legal  tribunal.  In  seconding  Harte's 
motion,  let  me  beg  of  you  not  to  proceed  to  any  act  of 
violence  on  mere  suspicion," 

Again  a  hum  of  disapproval  arose,  but  such  was  the  in- 
fluence of  the  last  two  speakers  in  the  camp  that  the  course 


52        IN  THE  'NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY. 

they  advocated  was  eventually  adopted,  much  to  the  dis- 
gust of  the  individual  known  as  Yank,  who  remarked  to 
Blue  Peter  over  a  friendly  "nobbier"  of  whiskey  that  it 
was  a  "tarnation  swindle  they  hadn't  hung  that  ugly  son 
of  a  gun  of  a  Portuguee  at  first  and  done  all  the  talking 
afterwards. ' ' 

During  Harte's  absence  Helen  busied  herself  in  carrying 
out  the  doctor's  instructions,  and  having  made  her  patient 
as  comfortable  as  the  ascetic  simplicity  of  Bristol  Bill's 
domestic  arrangements  would  admit,  she  shaded  the  light 
of  the  sputtering  lamp  from  his  face  and  sat  down  in  the 
semi-darkness  beside  his  bed. 

The  reaction  from  the  shock  of  the  wound  was  accom- 
panied by  pronounced  feverish  symptoms,  and  as  the  night 
wore  on  the  sick  man  grew  restless  with  the  excitement  of 
delirium.  In  his  wanderings  a  woman's  name  was  continu- 
ally on  his  lips.  Helen  felt  a  momentary  pang  of  jealousy 
at  the  discovery  that  in  spite  of  their  close  friendship  an- 
other woman  had  always  been  uppermost  in  his  thoughts, 
but  she  dismissed  it  as  unworthy  of  her. 

"  It  is  better  so,"  she  thought,  sadly;  "  if  he  had  cared 
for  me  my  happiness  would  have  been  too  great." 

She  took  his  burning  hand  between  her  cool  palms,  and 
with  the  name  "Edith"  still  on  his  lips  he  sank  into  a  trou- 
bled sleep.  A  few  minutes  later  she  heard  Harte's  foot- 
steps returning  from  the  "Golden  Dawn,"  and  she  stole 
softly  from  the  side  of  the  sleeping  man  to  meet  him  at  the 
door. 

"  Now,  miss,"  said  Harte,  "you'd  better  go  back  to  the 
'  Dawn'  and  get  some  rest ;  it's  nigh  onto  midnight  now. 
I'll  sit  with  him  till  daybreak,  and  if  anythin'  serious  should 
turn  up,  I'll  send  the  black  boy  Jim  up  for  the  doctor." 

"  Before  I  go  I  want  you  to  tell  me  one  thing,  Harte," 
said  Helen.  ' '  He  was  delirious  all  the  evening  until  he 
fell  asleep  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  all  the  time  he  called 
upon  the  name  of  Edith.     Who  is  Edith  ?" 

"Well,  miss,"  replied  Harte,  "it's  rather  a  long  story, 
but  I'll  make  it  as  short  as  I  can  for  you.  You  see  a  couple 
o'  years  back  me  and  Frank  and  another  chum  by  the 
name  o'  Villiers  took  a  mob  o'  cattle  out  to  the  Murchison. 
The  squatter  at  WoUattara  Station — Silas  Barham,  him  as 


IN  THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  53 

owns  the  station  on  Damper  Creek — asked  us  to  stay  a 
month  or  two  at  his  house.  He  had  a  daughter  Edith,  one 
o'  the  bonniest  girls  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  I  noticed  afore 
long  that  she  was  powerful  gone  on  Frank, — he  always  was 
a  takin'  chap  with  women,  was  Frank, — and  Frank,  too, 
on  her  for  that  matter,  and  they  used  to  spend  hours 
playin'  the  piano  and  readin'  together  when  me  and  the 
squatter  was  talkin'  about  sheep  and  cattle  and  such-like. 
By  and  by  the  squatter  began  to  notice  this  too.  Now, 
old  Barham  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  colony.  He 
had  come  out  in  the  early  days  with  nothing,  and  had  made 
his  pile,  and  if  there  was  one  thing  he  loved  more  than  his 
daughter  it  was  his  money.  When  we  was  out  ridin' 
together  on  the  plains  he  often  used  to  talk  to  me  of  his 
plans  and  schemes. 

"Speakin'  of  his  daughter  one  day,  he  said  he  calcu- 
lated to  take  her  down  in  a  year  or  two  to  Melbourne, 
where  she  had  been  to  school,  and  he  reckoned  what  with 
her  looks  and  his  money  she'd  make  a  good  match.  He's 
a  blunt,  plain-speakin'  chap,  is  Barham,  and  when  he  found 
out  Frank  and  Edith  was  sweet  on  one  another,  he  just 
called  Frank  aside  and  told  him  straight  that  he'd  not 
allow  no  man  to  marry  his  daughter  for  her  money.  We 
was  in  the  stock-yard  at  the  time,  and  when  old  Barham 
spoke  I  seen  the  blood  mount  into  Frank's  face,  and  I 
guessed  what  the  old  man  was  driving  at.  The  hint  that 
he  was  after  the  girl  for  her  money  stung  Frank  like  the 
lash  of  a  stock-whip,  for  if  there  is  a  thing  he  don't  care  a 
curse  about  it's  money.  I  expected  some  hot  words  from 
him,  but  instead  he  just  turned  to  me  and  said,  quite  cool- 
like,— 

"  '  Henry,  my  boy,  just  saddle  up  the  horses,  will  you. 
This  individual  has  been  so  accustomed  to  the  society  of 
people  of  his  own  sordid  stamp  that  he  is  quite  unable  to 
distinguish  a  gentleman  when  he  meets  one.'  And  with 
that  he  turns  his  back  on  the  squatter  and  walks  away. 
Half  an  hour  later  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  coast,  with- 
out ever  speakin'  a  word  of  farewell  to  Barham  or  Miss 
Edith.  We  had  p'r'aps  gone  about  four  miles  when  I 
found  I'd  left  my  pipe  behind,  so  Frank  and  Villiers  just 
went  slowly  ahead  while  I  loped  back  for  the  pipe.     Miss 

5* 


54        IN  THE  "never  never  COUNTRY. 

Edith  seen  me  enter  the  stock-yard  and  she  come  out.  '  Is 
it  really  true  he  is  going  away  ?'  she  said,  and  there  was 
tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke.  'Yes,  miss,'  says  I,  'it's 
true  enough.*  'Well,'  says  she,  'give  him  this,'  and  she 
gave  me  her  handkerchief,  'and  tell  him  I'll  never — never 
forget  him.' 

"That's  over  two  years  ago  now.  We  come  up  to  the 
Kimberley  from  the  South,  and  from  there  to  this  place. 
When  the  Gully  got  into  full  swing,  old  Barham,  seeing  a 
chance  to  make  more  money,  come  up  from  the  Murchison 
and  started  a  station  on  Damper  Creek.  Three  months 
ago  he  went  South  to  bring  his  daughter  up  to  live  with 
him,  and  Bill  Stokes,  who  come  through  from  the  coast  a 
week  since,  tells  me  she's  there  now.  Frank  heard  this 
the  other  day,  and  that's  what  perhaps  put  her  in  his 
thoughts." 

Harte  ceased ;  then,  in  a  firm  and  decided  voice,  Helen 
said, — 

' '  Harte,  he  desires  to  see  her,  and  he  shall  see  her  if  I 
can  accomplish  it.  I  will  go  down  to  Damper  Creek  and 
tell  her  of  his  condition,  and  if  she  cares  for  him  as  you 
say,  she  will  return  with  me  and  help  us  nurse  him  back  to 
health  and  strength." 

The  bushman  gazed  curiously  into  the  earnest  face  of  this 
singular  woman,  who  thus  calmly  proposed  to  undertake  a 
journey  across  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  desert  to 
bring  a  rival  to  the  bedside  of  the  man  she  loved.  His 
keen  perception,  trained  in  the  hard  school  of  the  bush  to 
a  close  observance  of  every  individual  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact,  had  long  ago  discerned  her  growing  attachment 
for  Lyndon,  jealously  as  she  had  guarded  the  secret,  and, 
though  he  could  not  fathom  the  motive  of  her  present  de- 
termination, his  admiration  for  the  self-abnegation  it  implied 
was  not  one  whit  the  less. 

"  It's  a  stiff"  journey,  miss, — one  hundred  and  fifty  miles, 
and  the  water-holes  is  empty,"  he  said,  hoping  to  dissuade 
her  from  what  he  considered  a  fool-hardy  venture. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know,"  she  interrupted,  with  a  slight  ges- 
ture of  impatience.  "  But  think  how  pleased  he  will  be  to 
see  her,  and  so  unexpectedly  too.  If  it  were  twice  as  far  I 
would  go.     Give  me  the  black  boy  Jim  to  look  after  the 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  55 

horses  and  prepare  the  meals,  and  with  a  few  directions 
from  you  I  can  make  the  journey." 

Harte,  seeing  that  opposition  was  useless,  proceeded  to 
explain  the  topography  of  the  district.  "The  lay  of  the 
country  ain't  easy  to  get  on  to,"  he  said.  "  These  moun- 
tains here  run  this  way."  And  he  described  a  huge  cres- 
cent on  the  ground,  marking  the  salient  points  with  a  stick. 
"If  we  could  make  Damper  Creek  as  the  crow  flies  it 
wouldn't  be  much  over  fifty  miles,  but  the  other  side  of  the 
gully  is  too  steep  to  be  crossed  anywheres.  If  you  could 
follow  the  bed  of  the  creek  you  might  p'r'aps  find  water, 
but  ten  miles  from  here  the  bed  is  too  rough  for  anything 
but  a  pack-train,  and  you'd  easy  lose  a  day  in  time.  So 
you'd  better  follow  the  track  around  this  side  o'  the  gully 
till  you  get  behind  the  big  rock  away  off  there  in  the  bend, 
where  it  crosses  the  ranges  to  the  plains.  Then  you  strike 
almost  due  north' ard  across  the  desert  until  you  get  around 
the  other  end  of  the  ranges  where  the  creek  loses  itself  in 
the  plain.  Passin'  round  the  end  o'  the  ranges,  you  strike 
due  south  one  hundred  miles, — but  Jim,  he  knows  the  way ; 
you  trust  to  him,  and  you'll  get  through  all  right.  I  reckon 
you'll  be  wantin'  to  start  about  daybreak,  so  we'd  better 
say  good-night  now.  You'  11  need  all  the  rest  you  can  get, 
for  it's  a  hard  journey  for  a  woman." 

Helen  shook  the  huge  hand  of  the  bushman,  and,  with  a 
last  peep  at  the  recumbent  form  of  Lyndon,  took  her  way 
up  the  cliff. 

Next  morning  she  arose  before  sunrise,  and,  mounted  on 
one  of  Bristol  Bill's  sturdy  pack-horses,  set  out  on  her  self- 
imposed  journey,  accompanied  by  the  black  boy  Jim. 


V. 

It  is  noon  at  Damper  Creek  Station.     The  sun  beats 
down  from  the  incandescent  sky,  and  all 

" the  landscape  indistinctly  glares 

Through  a  pale  steam." 

Silas  Barham's  homestead,  half  hidden  by  a  grove  of  sandal- 
wood in  a  bend  of  the  creek,  is  sheltered  from  the  sultry 


56  IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

noontide  glare.  Its  verandas  are  covered  with  trailing 
vines  of  the  leafy  passion  plant,  and  beneath  their  grateful 
shade  is  a  young  girl  half  sitting,  half  reclining  in  a  silken 
hammock.  She  is  very  beautiful,  this  daughter  of  the 
plains.  Her  fair  face,  framed  in  a  nimbus  of  golden  hair, 
is  delicately  lovely,  and  her  eyes  are  of  the  deep  azure  tint 
of  her  native  austral  skies.  With  hands  clasped  behind 
her  shapely  head,  she  swings  lazily  to  and  fro,  gazing  list- 
lessly out  upon  the  plain. 

As  far  as  the  eye  can  see  the  bush  is  burned  brown  and 
bare,  for  it  is  six  months  since  rain  fell,  and  the  grass  is  all 
gone  save  in  the  vicinity  of  the  creeks  and  water-holes, 
where  the  thirsty  cattle  lie  all  day.  In  the  north  the  blue 
peak  of  an  outspur  of  the  ranges  is  faintly  visible  against 
the  sky  ;  in  the  south  the  smoke  of  a  distant  bush-fire 
hangs  upon  the  horizon  in  a  sullen  cloud.  There  a  ' '  thin  red 
line"  of  flame  is  marching  ever  onward  through  the  parched 
forest, — destruction  in  its  van,  devastation  in  its  train. 

Among  the  stones  of  the  creek  the  nimble  lizard,  in  his 
gaudy  garb  of  emerald  and  bronze,  darts  to  and  fro  like  a 
streak  of  living  flame,  and  the  iguana  basking  on  the 
scorching  rock  utters  a  curious  crooning  cry  of  delight,  for 
to  them  heat  is  life  and  fierce  rays  fire  their  torpid  blood  ; 
but  the  whip-bird  droops  his  tired  wing  upon  the  bough 
and  sounds  no  more  his  metallic  note ;  the  sibilant  mono- 
tone of  the  cicada  is  no  longer  heard ;  an  oppressive  silence 
reigns  in  the  solitudes  of  the  bush,  and  wearied  Nature 
sleeps. 

Suddenly  the  familiar  landscape  changes  as  if  by  enchant- 
ment. The  arid  expanse  beyond  the  creek  becomes  a  ver- 
dant plain,  dotted  with  browsing  herds.  A  limpid  lake, 
with  silvery  waters  rippling  to  the  breath  of  gentle  zephyrs, 
laps  the  green  banks  of  dewy  lawns,  where  splashing  foun- 
tains play  and  sparkle  in  the  sunlight  and  graceful  palms 
bend  their  lofty  heads  to  the  breeze. 

"  The  misted  purple  of  the  mountain  peak 
Looks  far  ethereal,"  * 

and  slowly  melts  into  the  distance. 

*  "  A  Dream  of  Phidias,"  Rennel  Rodd. 


IN  THE  "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY.  57 

Like  a  vision  from  the  ' '  Arabian  Nights' '  rise  marble 
mosques  and  minarets,  and  the  hundred  spires  and  domes 
of  an  Oriental  city.  It  is  the  mocking  mirage  of  the  desert, 
soon  to  vanish  in  a  trembling  haze,  yet,  while  it  lasts,  clear 
and  distinct  with  the  delusive  semblance  of  reality. 

The  young  girl  springs  from  the  hammock,  and,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  hands,  gazes  at  the  fairy  picture  in  rapt 
delight. 

"Mr.  Dunn  !  oh,  Mr.  Dunn  !"  she  calls  to  the  foreman, 
who  is  enjoying  a  siesta  in  a  cool  corner  at  the  far  end  of  the 
porch,  "  come  and  look  at  this  wonderful  mirage  !" 

The  sight  of  a  mirage  is  no  novelty  to  the  old  bushman, 
the  greater  part  of  whose  life  has  been  spent  in  the  "  Never 
Never  Country,"  but  to  gratify  his  young  mistress  he  comes 
forward  from  his  shady  nook  to  look  at  Nature's  transfor- 
mation scene. 

"Is  it  not  wonderful?"  the  young  girl  says.  "Look 
how  clearly  defined  those  towers  and  palaces  are  !  A  Mos- 
lem city,  too  !  Just  such  a  one  as  I  imagine  Bagdad  to 
have  been  in  the  golden  prime  of  the  good  Haroun-al-Ras- 
chid.  I  almost  fancy  I  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  muezzin 
from  yonder  lofty  mosque  calling  the  faithful  to  prayer  1 
And  see  beneath  that  large  stone  archway  two  horsemen  are 
riding.     How  strangely  real  it  all  seems  !" 

' '  I  don' t  know  nothing  about  no  Bagdad  nor  no  faithful, 
Miss  Edith,"  says  the  old  bushman,  whose  mind  is  abso- 
lutely impervious  to  poetic  allusion  ;  "  but  them  horsemen 
is  real;  they  don't  belong  to  no  mirredge,  they  don't. 
They're  movin'  this  way,  too  ;  and  when  the  mirredge  is 
gone  you'll  see  they'll  be  left  on  the  plain." 

Even  as  he  speaks  the  outlines  of  the  mirage  become 
blurred  and  indistinct,  and  the  phantom  city  vanishes  as 
quickly  as  it  appeared.  The  faint  outline  of  the  solitary 
peak  again  looms  up  above  the  northern  horizon,  but  the 
two  figures  are  still  seen  moving  across  the  plain.  The 
young  girl  runs  into  the  house,  and  returning  with  a  pair  of 
small  field-glasses,  she  quickly  levels  them  at  the  distant 
objects. 

"Why,  one  is  a  woman,"  she  says,  in  astonishment, 
"and  the  other  a  black  fellow.  They  are  heading  for  the 
creek. ' ' 


58  IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY." 

And  in  another  half-hour  two  dust-begrimed  travellers 
ride  up  to  a  large  water-hole,  where  they  and  their  jaded 
steeds  halt  to  quench  their  thirst.  Then,  remounting,  they 
cross  the  creek  and  make  for  the  homestead.  At  the  gate 
the  horsewoman,  throwing  her  bridle  to  the  black  fellow, 
again  dismounts,  and,  walking  up  the  pathway,  ascends  the 
steps  of  the  veranda. 

"Have  I  the  good  fortune  to  meet  Miss  Barham?"  she 
says,  in  rich,  clear  tones. 

"That  is  my  name,"  answers  the  squatter's  daughter. 

' '  I  have  come  from  the  Gully, ' '  continues  the  traveller, 
"to  bring  you  news  of  one  in  whom,  I  am  told,  you  take 
deep  interest.  I  speak  of  Francis  Lyndon.  He  lies  wounded 
almost  unto  death  at  the  Gully,  and  in  his  delirium  he  calls 
for  you.  His  friend  Harte  told  me  you  were  here,  and  I 
came  over  to  tell  you  of  his  condition,  because  I  thought 
you  might  wish  to  see  him  before  he  dies,  or  to  help  me 
nurse  him  back  to  health  should  his  life  be  spared.  Will 
you  ride  back  with  me  ?' ' 

At  the  mention  of  Lyndon's  name  Edith  Barham' s  fair 
face  crimsons  with  a  tell-tale  glow.  Tender  memories  of  a 
brief  period  of  happiness  in  her  life  at  Wollattara  Station, 
when  she  first  learned  to  love  the  handsome,  careless  Eng- 
lishman, are  awakened  within  her,  and  she  feels  that  he  is 
even  dearer  to  her  now  than  in  those  sunny  days,  two  years 
ago,  when  they  spent  so  many  happy  hours  together  by 
the  reedy  banks  of  the  Murchison.  Her  father  is  away  at 
the  port  awaiting  the  arrival  by  steamer  of  a  mob  of  cattle 
for  the  station.  She  knows  that  he  would  never  permit  her 
to  make  the  journey  to  Dirty  Mary's  Gully,  but  her  sense 
of  filial  duty  is  overwhelmed  in  her  reawakened  love  ;  and 
when  she  thinks  of  Lyndon  lying  wounded,  perhaps  dying, 
in  the  distant  camp,  a  great  yearning  to  be  near  him  fills 
her  breast.     She  turns  to  the  messenger. 

"Miss ?" 

"  Compton,"  says  the  other  ;  "  but  call  me  Helen,  please. 
We  shall  be  very  dear  friends,  I  hope."  And  she  frankly 
extends  her  hand,  which  is  as  frankly  clasped. 

"  Helen,"  the  squatter's  daughter  says,  simply,  "  I  will 
return  with  you." 

It  is  sundown  at  Damper  Creek  Station.     The  shadows 


IN  THE    "NEVER  NEVER  COUNTRY."  59 

lengthen  on  the  plain,  and  the  murky  bosom  of  the  distant 
smoke-cloud  glows  with  the  lurid  light  of  the  fire  beneath. 
A  heavy  wraith  of  mist  rises  from  the  creek,  where  the  low- 
ing cattle  stand  knee-deep  taking  their  evening  draught. 
The  bull-frogs  croak  in  dismal  chorus  in  the  muddy  mar- 
gins of  the  water-holes,  and  the  air  is  filled  with  the  vibrant 
hum  of  a  teeming  insect-life. 

From  the  gate  of  the  homestead  three  figures  ride  forth. 
They  are  Edith  Barham,  Helen  Compton,  and  the  black  boy 
Jim.  They  halt  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  creek  to  give  their 
horses  a  last  drink,  for  the  way  before  them  is  long.  Across 
dreary  solitudes  of  sand  that  echo  only  to  the  curlew's 
mournful  wail,  and  stony,  waterless  wastes, 

" that  seem  to  upbraid 

The  sun  in  heaven," 

it  lies  ;  and  if  their  horses  fail  them,  they  are  lost. 

And  so  through  the  bare  and  melancholy  landscapes  of 
the  '  *  Never  Never  Country, ' '  where  eternal  silence  dwells, 
they  go  until,  at  noon  on  the  second  day  out  from  the 
station,  they  halt  in  the  shadow  of  a  giant  rock  at  the  end 
of  the  ranges  in  the  recesses  of  which  their  destination 
lies. 

To  the  right  is  the  huge  crescent  of  the  mountain  chain  ; 
before  them  extends  the  boulder-strewn  desert  mentioned  in 
the  opening  pages  of  this  story.  It  is  only  fifty  miles  to 
the  camp  now,  but  the  horses  are  breaking  down.  The 
poor  animals  stand  with  heaving  flanks  and  dilated  nostrils. 
Their  staring  eyes  are  bloodshot,  and  they  whinny  hoarsely 
in  the  agonies  of  thirst.  Since  daybreak  the  heat  has  been 
intense.  The  breath  of  the  desert  is  like  the  blast  of  a 
furnace ;  a  purple  haze  of  heat  obscures  the  sky,  and 
through  it  the  noonday  sun,  shorn  of  his  dazzling  beams, 
shines  with  a  sickly  glare. 

The  younger  woman  gazes  at  the  elder  with  a  look  of 
helpless  interrogation, 

' '  What  are  we  to  do  ?' '  she  asks,  in  a  weary  tone. 

* '  Push  ahead  as  far  as  the  horses  can  go,  then  leave 
them  to  their  fate  and  walk,"  the  other  answers,  tersely. 
' '  There  is  enough  water  for  us  in  the  canvas  bottles,  and, 


6o  IN   THE    "never   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  we  can  halt  and  send  Jim 
ahead  for  aid. ' ' 

And  then  the  black  boy  speaks  for  the  first  time  since 
leaving  Dirty  Mary's  Gully. 

"  Missy  no  push  'head,"  he  says,  earnestly,  in  his  Pigeon 
English.  ' '  Budgeree  *  place,  this ;  all  same  long  o'  water- 
hole  bym'by.  Camp  here.  One — two  hour  big  fellow  rain 
come.  Plenty  wind;  al'gether  too  much  plenty  wind. 
Yaramanf  no  die;  him  drink  plenty  bym'by.  Jim  all 
right ;  he  know. ' ' 

And  with  impHcit  trust  in  the  unerring  instinct  of  this 
dusky  child  of  Nature,  they  hobble  their  tired  horses  and 
sit  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock. 

An  hour  passes.  Fiercer  grows  the  fervid  heat,  and 
Helen  begins  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  course  they  have 
taken. 

But  at  last,  when  hope  is  almost  gone,  a  change  takes 
placCo  Sudden  gusts  of  wind  arise  and  scurry  over  the 
plain,  their  erratic  courses  marked  by  little  spiral  columns 
of  dust.  In  the  north  appears  a  small  black  cloud,  no 
larger  than  that  the  servant  of  the  prophet  of  old  beheld 
from  Carmel's  hoary  top.  Rapidly  it  increases  in  size  until 
it  fills  the  whole  horizon.  Soon  the  sun  is  obscured,  and 
the  gloom  of  night  succeeds  the  blinding  glare  of  day. 
Pale  lightnings  shoot  athwart  the  inky  sky,  and  the  re- 
sponsive thunder  echoes  with  reverberant  roll  in  the  hollow 
defiles  of  the  mountains.  Afar  off  an  angry  sea  of  clouds 
surges  and  seethes  as  though  tossed  in  the  conflict  of 
mighty  winds.  A  funnel-shaped  mass  descends  in  huge 
spirals  from  the  lowering  canopy,  and  is  met  in  mid-air  by 
a  whirling  cone  of  sand  uprising  from  the  earth ;  and  then 
the  brooding  silence  of  the  desert  is  broken  by  a  strange, 
moaning  sound,  that  rises  in  volume  until  it  becomes  a 
deafening  shriek,  and  the  Storm  King,  enthroned  in  the 
whirlwind,  sweeps  down  upon  the  plain. 

The  travellers  seek  the  lee  of  the  giant  rock,  and  fling 
themselves  face  downward  on  the  earth  until  the  violence 
of  the  storm  abates.  For  nearly  an  hour  it  rages  with 
cyclonic  fury,  then  it  ceases  as  suddenly  as  it  began.     The 

*  Good.  ■(•  Horse. 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  6l 

dense  clouds  of  driving  sand  subside,  and  a  welcome  rain 
descends  in  torrents  from  the  leaden  sky. 

Edith  and  the  black  boy  Jim  emerge  from  a  sheltered 
angle  of  the  rock,  and  shake  the  all-pervading  sand  from 
the  folds  of  their  clothing.  Helen  is  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Edith,  in  a  tremor  of  apprehension,  loudly  calls  her  by 
name,  and  a  faint  voice  responds  from  the  other  side  of  the 
rock.  There  Helen  is  found  half-buried  in  a  sand-drift, 
from  which  she  is  extricated  by  the  united  efforts  of  Edith 
and  the  black  boy  Jim.  The  bodice  of  her  riding-habit  is 
torn  to  shreds,  and  she  is  bleeding  from  an  ugly  wound  in 
her  side. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  says,  with  a  half-smile  at  the  look 
of  deep  concern  on  Edith's  face.  "I  wanted  to  see  the 
sand-spout,  and  foolishly  ventured  from  the  shelter  of  the 
rock  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  phenomenon.  The  wind 
caught  my  habit  and  hurled  me  among  those  jagged  points 
of  rock.  I  thought  at  first  my  ribs  were  broken,  but  it  is 
only  a  flesh  wound." 

It  is,  in  truth,  a  serious  injury,  but  she  makes  light  of  it 
to  relieve  her  friend's  evident  anxiety. 

They  water  the  horses  at  a  shallow  depression  the  rain 
has  filled.  Here  also  Helen  bathes  her  wound,  and,  tear- 
ing off  the  lower  edge  of  an  undergarment,  instructs  Edith 
how  to  apply  a  compress  and  bandage  to  stop  further 
bleeding. 

Then  they  remount  and  continue  their  journey.  The 
sturdy  little  stock  horses,  reinvigorated  by  water  and  rest, 
gallantly  respond  to  the  spur.  The  loose,  powdery  sand, 
thoroughly  soaked  with  rain,  is  now  as  hard  and  firm  as  the 
wet  sea-beach  at  low  tide,  and  no  longer  impedes  their 
progress.  Hours  pass  by,  night  falls,  and  still  they  push 
ahead.  At  nine  o'clock  they  reach  the  mountains  and  be- 
gin their  ascent.  The  crest  is  topped,  and  they  pass  into 
the  sombre  shadows  of  the  canon.  When  the  great  bend 
is  reached  they  can  see  the  lights  of  the  upper  camp,  on 
the  farther  side,  twinkling  through  the  rain. 

'We  shall  soon  be  there  now,"  says  Helen,  encour- 
agingly, to  Edith,  who  is  nearly  dead  with  fatigue ;  and 
then,  following  the  black  boy  Jim  in  single  file,  they  de- 
scend the  perilous  winding  path  that  leads  down  to  Bristol 

6 


62  IN   THE    "never   NEVER   COUNTRY." 

Bill's  abode.  But,  to  Helen's  surprise,  no  welcoming 
beacon-light  streams  from  its  windows.  She  rides  to  the 
front  of  the  "humpy."  The  door  is  unhinged  and  the 
place  deserted. 

"They  have  removed  him  for  some  reason,"  she  says, 
excitedly.  ' '  We  must  go  up  to  the  '  Golden  Dawn'  to 
inquire." 

A  quick  ear  catches  the  clatter  of  their  horses'  hoofs 
ascending  the  steep  pathway  to  the  "  Golden  Dawn,"  and 
when  they  reach  the  hotel  Harte's  stalwart  figure  comes 
forward  to  greet  them  in  the  rain.  Helen  springs  from  the 
saddle  unaided,  and  assists  Edith,  who  is  now  completely 
exhausted,  to  alight.  She  leads  the  squatter's  daughter  to 
her  own  warm  chamber  and  places  her  in  charge  of  the 
motherly  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  who  promptly  puts  the  tired 
girl  to  bed.  Helen  herself  experiences  no  sense  of  fatigue. 
On  the  other  hand,  though  her  wound  is  painful,  she  is 
conscious  of  a  strange  feeling  of  exaltation,  her  nerves  are 
strung  to  the  highest  tension,  and  her  pulses  throb  with 
feverish  heat.  Quickly  she  changes  her  wet,  clinging  gar- 
ments for  dry  clothing,  and,  hastily  knotting  her  dark, 
luxuriant  tresses  into  a  loose  coil  on  the  top  of  her  head, 
she  hurries  to  rejoin  Harte  at  the  door. 

"  How  is  he?"  she  asks,  with  eager  solicitude. 

"I've  bad  news  for  you,  miss,"  says  Harte,  gloomily. 
"We  moved  him  from  Bristol  Bill's  up  here  half  an  hour 
or  so  back.  You  see,  it's  bin  rainin'  hard  all  the  afternoon, 
and  I'm  afeard  the  creek' 11  be  down  afore  long.  Bristol 
Bill's  humpy  is  only  twenty  feet  above  the  bed  o'  the  creek; 
this  here  place  is  a  hundred  and  fifty,  and  out  o'  reach  of 
any  flood.  So  we  took  the  door  o'  the  humpy,  and  me 
and  Sim  Jenkins  started  to  bring  him  up  on  it  to  my  tent. 
But  Sim,  as  was  in  front,  he  fell,  and  dropped  his  end. 
The  jar  started  the  wound  bleedin'  afresh.  So,  bein'  as 
the  doctor  boards  at  the  '  Dawn*  now,  we  brought  him 
here.  Harne's  fixed  up  the  arm  agen,  but  I'm  afeard  poor 
Frank's  gone  up." 

"  Let  me  see  him,"  she  says,  quietly. 

Harte  leads  the  way  into  Le  Harne's  room.  On  the  bed, 
at  the  farther  side,  lies  Lyndon's  still  insensible  form.  His 
face  wears  the  pallid  hue  of  death,  and  only  by  the  closest 


IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY."  63 

observation  is  one  certain  that  he  yet  breathes.  Le  Harne 
welcomes  Helen  with  a  bow  of  silent  recognition.  She 
walks  to  the  couch  and  bends  tenderly  over  the  pale  face 
of  the  man  she  loves. 

"What  are  his  chances?"  she  says,  at  length,  to  the 
doctor,  in  a  strangely  calm  tone  that  contrasts  oddly  with 
her  flushed  face  and  nervous  manner. 

"He  has  but  one  chance,  and  that  a  slender  one,"  re- 
plies the  doctor.  "He  is  in  such  a  condition  of  anaemic 
debility  that  nothing,  in  my  opinion,  can  save  him  but 
transfusion." 

"What's  that?"  queries  Harte. 

' '  Some  one  must  furnish  blood  to  replenish  his  depleted 
system,"  answers  the  doctor. 

Harte  bares  to  the  shoulder  a  mighty  arm  so  knotted  and 
corded  with  huge  muscles  that  it  looks  like  a  gnarled  limb 
of  his  native  iron-bark. 

' '  Take  what  you  want  from  that, ' '  he  says,  grimly.  * '  I 
reckon  /can  stand  it." 

"  No  !  no  !"  says  Helen,  stepping  in  front  of  the  bush- 
man.      "  I  will  be  the  donor." 

"It  won't  do,  miss,"  says  Harte,  gently  but  firmly. 
"  You've  done  your  share  already  ;  now  it's  my  turn.  I'm 
ready  when  you  are,  Harne. ' ' 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  be  the  donor  !"  she  repeats,  stamping 
her  foot,  her  eyes  aflame,  and  her  cheeks  aglow  with  ex- 
citement. It  is  no  longer  the  old  calm,  patient  Helen  who 
speaks,  but  a  passionate,  imperious  woman,  determined  to 
have  her  way.  "See,  here  is  life-blood  in  abundance!" 
she  continues,  drawing  herself  up  to  the  full  height  of  her 
Junoesque  stature.  She  bares  her  bosom  as  she  speaks, 
and  tears  away  the  bandage  that  covers  the  ragged  and 
bleeding  rent  beneath  the  white  globes  of  her  breast. 
"  And,"  she  adds,  with  infinite  tenderness  in  her  voice,  "  I 
would  willingly  give  it,  every  drop,  to  save  his  life." 

Le  Harne,  observing  the  condition  of  nervous  excite- 
ment under  which  she  is  laboring,  tries  to  enter  a  last 
protest. 

' '  Really,  Miss  Compton ' '  he  begins. 

Helen  turns  upon  him  quickly. 

"Shame  on  you,"  she  says,  in  a  reproachful  tone,  "to 


64  IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY." 

waste  precious  time  in  useless  opposition  !  His  frail  hold 
on  life  may  fail  even  while  we  talk,  and  I  will  not  be 
dissuaded." 

Harte  sits  down,  with  a  curious  expression  in  his  strongly- 
marked  face.  Accustomed  all  his  rugged  life  to  brook  no 
opposition,  it  is  a  novel  sensation  to  him  to  yield.  With  a 
man  his  course  of  action  would  have  been  clear.  In  that 
case  he  could  have  simplified  matters  in  a  twinkling  by 
pitching  the  obstinate  individual  through  the  window.  The 
only  argument  he  knows  is  force,  and  this  he  cannot  apply 
to  a  woman.  His  strong  nature  is  powerless  before  Helen's 
headstrong  will,  and  he  unwillingly  resigns  himself  to  the 
situation  and  says  no  more. 

It  is  a  strange  scene.  The  flickering  flame  of  the  pen- 
dent oil-lamp,  though  augmented  by  the  light  of  two  wax 
candles  guttering  in  the  necks  of  empty  beer-bottles,  barely 
suffices  to  relieve  the  gloom  of  the  rude  chamber.  At  one 
side  of  the  bed,  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  sits  the  huge 
bushman,  looking  dogged  and  unhappy.  On  the  other  is 
the  doctor,  busy  with  his  instruments ;  and  at  the  sick 
man's  head  stands  Helen,  her  bosom  bare  and  bleeding, 
while  her  long  hair,  uncoiled,  falls  in  dark,  waving  masses 
to  the  floor. 

Outside,  the  ceaseless  drip,  drip  of  water  from  the  eaves 
falls  with  monotonous  cadence,  and  through  the  thin  bark 
partition  can  be  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the 
muffled  voices  of  the  miners  drinking  at  the  bar. 

' '  I  have  no  proper  instruments  for  the  operation  of  trans- 
fusion," says  the  doctor,  breaking  the  silence.  "  We  shall 
have  to  be  content  with  an  improvisation  and  the  method 
known  as  hydrostatic  pressure." 

He  takes  a  glass  tube  from  his  case  as  he  speaks  and 
holds  its  middle  in  the  flame  of  one  of  the  candles.  When 
the  glass  is  softened  by  heat  he  draws  the  two  ends  asunder, 
thus  forming  two  tubes,  each  tapering  to  a  point.  One  of 
these  he  affixes  to  a  piece  of  rubber  piping,  in  the  other 
end  of  which  he  inserts  a  glass  funnel.  This  rude  appli- 
ance he  washes  in  a  solution  of  boracic  acid,  and  his  impro- 
visation is  complete.  He  beckons  Harte  to  come  round  to 
hold  the  funnel.  With  a  few  rapid  strokes  of  a  keen  scal- 
pel he  opens  the  median  cephalic  vein  in  Helen's  arm,  and 


IN   THE    "NEVER   NEVER   COUNTRY."  65 

the  red  stream  pours  forth  into  the  funnel  held  to  receive  it. 
Then,  opening  the  median  basilic  vein  in  the  sick  man's 
arm,  he  inserts  the  point  of  the  canula,  and  Helen's  life- 
blood  begins  to  flow  into  Lyndon's  empty  veins. 

When  the  operation  is  completed  Le  Harne  applies  a 
dressing  to  both  incisions,  and  prevails  upon  Helen  to  allow 
him  to  re-dress  the  wound  in  her  side,  which  is  still 
persistently  bleeding. 

"  If  you  need  me  again,"  he  says,  as  he  ties  the  band- 
age, ' '  you  will  find  me  in  the  bar.  I  trust,  however,  I 
shall  not  be  needed,  for  I  have  done  all  that  surgery  can  do 
to  save  his  life.  The  issue  depends  upon  the  latent  strength 
of  his  constitution." 

"  Leave  me,  Harte,"  says  Helen,  when  the  doctor  goes. 
"  I  will  take  the  first  watch.  I  am  not  in  the  least  tired," 
she  adds,  observing  the  frown  of  disapproval  that  clouds 
Harte' s  face.  "To-morrow,  no  doubt,  I  shall  feel  the 
fatigue  of  the  journey,  and  then  your  turn  will  come." 

Harte,  having  learned  the  futility  of  opposition  to  her 
wishes,  utters  no  remonstrance,  and  silently  but  unwillingly 
withdraws. 


VI. 

Harte,  on  leaving  the  sick-room  at  Helen's  request, 
proceeds  to  the  other  end  of  the  building,  and  passes  the 
time  pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro  along  the  veranda. 

"  Strange  it  ain't  down  yet,  but  it  can't  be  long  now,"  he 
mutters,  half  audibly,  as  he  stops  to  light  his  pipe. 

It  is  eleven  p.m.  The  rain  has  ceased,  and  the  pale  moon 
sheds  a  fitful  light  upon  the  sodden  earth  through  remnants 
of  scudding  cloud.  There  is  something  in  the  scene  that  is 
impressive  even  to  the  unimaginative  bushman,  accustomed 
as  he  is  to  the  varied  aspects  of  Nature  in  the  vast  solitudes 
of  the  ' '  Never  Never  Country. ' ' 

What  a  strange,  weird  land  it  is  !  doubly  strange  and 
weird  when  the  shades  of  night  have  fallen.  What  mon- 
strous shapes  marshal  in  the  deep  gloom  of  the  canon  ! 
Gaunt  and  ghostly  trees  !  Rugged  and  fire-scathed  rocks  I 
e  6* 


66  IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY." 

Crag  piled  upon  crag  in  wild  upheaval,  and  jagged  peaks 
riven  with  darkly-yawning  chasms  that  bear  mute  witness 
of  the  primeval  cataclysm  when  molten  rocks  seethed  in 
hissing  seas  and  Nature  writhed  in  the  throes  of  birth. 
Eons  of  ages  ere  man  was,  the  Southern  Cross  nightly 
gleamed  upon  this  wild,  unearthl)'^  landscape  and  marked  no 
change.  The  star  the  shepherds  saw  of  old  shone  upon  the 
same  unbroken  solitude.  Near  twice  a  thousand  years  have 
fled,  and  again  it  is  Christmas-eve.  But  how  changed  the 
scene  !  Man,  in  his  lust  for  gold,  has  defiled  Nature's  sanc- 
tuary. 

Since  noon  it  has  been  raining  as  it  only  can  rain  in  the 
tropic  belt, — a  steady  fall  of  one  unbroken  sheet  of  water, 
pouring  down  with  the  rush  of  a  cataract. 

Since  sundown  the  creek  has  risen  rapidly,  but  little  reck 
the  miners  in  the  lower  camp.  They  are  celebrating  that 
festive  season  by  drinking  themselves  drunk  on  fiery  liquors 
in  the  "Welcome  Nugget."  From  the  windows  of  that 
vile  resort  wild  strains  of  discord  float,  for  there  is  a  ball, — 
save  the  mark  ! — given  by  "  Pretty  Dick,"  the  proprietor, 
to  a  select  circle  of  friends.  Bursts  of  unholy  revelry, 
obscene  songs,  and  brutal  jests  desecrate  the  hour.  Lewd 
women, — offscourings  of  the  great  Southern  cities, — their 
blood  fired  by  strong  drink,  fling  the  last  shreds  of  modesty 
to  the  winds,  and  tread  the  wild  measures  of  the  danse  du 
ventre  amid  the  coarse  plaudits  of  their  drunken  admirers. 

Fast  and  furious  grows  the  fun  !  The  orgie  is  at  its 
height  when  the  wheezy  clock  in  the  outer  bar  strikes  the 
midnight  hour  and  ushers  in  the  Christmas-morn.  But, 
hark  !  What  strange  sound  is  that  ?  A  low  but  gradually- 
increasing  roar,  as  of  distant  but  continuous  thunder.  It 
rises  above  the  thud  of  the  dance,  the  discord  of  fiddle  and 
concertina,  and  drowns  the  drunken  shout.  Silence  falls 
upon  the  godless  throng,  and  each  gazes  upon  his  neighbor 
with  blanching  cheek  and  inquiring  eye. 

The  strange  roar  draws  nearer  and  nearer.  At  last  its 
import  dawns  upon  the  revellers,  and  with  a  wild  scream  of 
terror  they  pour  forth  into  the  night.  Too  late !  No 
human  aid  can  save  them  from  that  rushing  wall  of  water, 
crested  with  curled  and  foaming  wave  !  Too  late,  the  tardy 
shriek  for  mercy  !     The  mountain  torrent,  swollen  with  the 


IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY."  67 

tropic  rains,  is  even  now  upon  them.  Another  moment  and 
the  thunderous  tide  has  swept  their  bodies  onward,  and  the 
lower  camp  is  buried  forty  feet  beneath  the  flood. 

^  ik  rfc  jJc  ^tc  5k  rkz  5k 

When  Harte  leaves  her,  Helen  seats  herself  by  the  sick 
man's  side.  She  is  strangely  happy  now,  and  an  ineffable 
sense  of  peace  pervades  her  whole  being.  She  feels  in- 
tuitively that  Lyndon  will  live,  and — oh,  sweet  reflection  ! 
— he  will  owe  his  life  to  her. 

For  a  long  time  she  sits  thus  watching  his  faint  breathing. 
At  last  a  dreamy  languorous  feeling  steals  over  her  wearied 
senses  ;  the  nervous  strain  she  has  borne  so  long  is  breaking, 
and  exhausted  nature  clamors  for  repose.  She  makes  an 
effort  to  shake  off"  this  increasing  somnolence,  but  the  heavy 
lids  droop  again  and  again.     She  kneels 

"  Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed," 

and  lays  her  cheek  against  the  sick  man's  face. 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  she  murmurs  in  his  unconscious  ear  ; 
"  but  if  I  must  sleep,  it  shall  be  near  you." 

There  is  a  couch  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  when 
she  tries  to  drag  this  beside  the  bed  she  discovers  that  she 
is  growing  very  faint  and  weak.  She  bends  once  more  over 
the  sick  man,  in  whose  waxen  cheeks  the  faint  glow  of  re- 
turning vigor  imparted  by  her  life-blood  is  beginning  to 
appear,  and  imprints  a  long  kiss  on  his  cold  brow. 

"Good-night,  my  love,"  she  whispers,  softly.  "To- 
morrow no  longer  mine." 

Then  reclining  upon  the  couch  she  has  placed  near  the 
bed,  she  clasps  his  hand  in  hers.  The  tired  eyelids  close, 
the  long  lashes  droop  upon  the  pallid  cheek,  and  she  sinks 
insensibly  into  a  heavy,  dreamless  slumber.  And  Harte, 
returning  to  the  sick-room  as  the  purple  streaks  of  dawn 
brighten  in  the  eastern  sky,  finds  her,  as  he  thinks,  still  sleep- 
ing. But  when  the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  stream  through 
the  lattice,  the  bushman  sees  it  is  a  sleep  that  knows  no 
waking.  The  generous  heart,  drained  of  its  crimson  tide 
to  give  another  life,  has  ceased  to  beat,  for  in  the  darker 
hours  that  precede  the  dawn  the  tired  spirit  has  passed  into 
the  shadows  of  the  dim  Unknown. 


68  IN   THE    "never   never   COUNTRY," 

The  statuesque  face,  so  life-like  in  its  tranquil  calm,  looks 
like  a  sculptured  master-piece  from  the  cunning  hand  of 
Phidias, — 

" for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead, 

But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  though  she  smiled." 


L'ENVOI. 

Weeks  have  passed  since  the  rain.  The  creek  flashes 
merrily  in  the  sunlight  over  the  smooth  stones  in  its  accus- 
tomed channel  as  though  no  mountain  torrent  had  ever 
disturbed  its  crystal  pools. 

The  "  claims,"  silted  up  by  the  flood,  have  been  reopened, 
and  the  miners  of  the  upper  camp  delve  for  gold  in  the 
sands  of  the  gorge  as  feverishly  as  before.  The  catastrophe 
that  overwhelmed  the  lower  camp  is  but  an  ordinary  event 
in  their  adventurous  lives,  and  it  is  forgotten  even  before 
the  transient  traces  of  the  storm  have  disappeared. 

For  many  days  Lyndon  hovers  between  life  and  death  in 
the  darkened  room  at  the  "Golden  Dawn,"  but  the  nat- 
ural strength  of  his  constitution,  fostered  by  Harte's  watch- 
ful nursing  and  Edith's  tender  care,  triumphs  in  the  end. 

One  calm  summer  evening,  in  the  early  period  of  his 
convalescence,  Edith  leads  him — for  he  is  yet  gaunt  and 
feeble  and  the  mere  shadow  of  his  former  stalwart  self — 
down  to  the  belt  of  myall  where  he  received  his  wound. 
There,  in  a  secluded  clearing, — where  the  lyre-bird  comes 
to  flaunt  his  graceful  plumes  unseen  of  man,  and  the  golden 
wattle-trees  load  the  air  with  their  sweet  perfume, — he  sees 
a  new-made  grave  among  the  ferns.  Its  head  is  marked  by 
a  rough-hewn  shaft  of  glistening  quartz.  About  the  stone 
the  wild  clematis  twines,  and  through  the  leaves  he  reads 
the  one  word.  "  Helen"  carved  in  a  smoothly-chiselled 
space. 

And  by  that  solitary  grave  he  first  learns  from  Edith  the 
particulars  of  his  illness.  As  he  listens  to  the  story,  mem- 
ories of  Helen — the  sad  episode  in  her  Hfe,  her  patient 
resignation,  her  classic  face  and   queenly  grace,  and   the 


IN   THE    "never  never   COUNTRY."  69 

many  happy  hours  he  spent  with  her  beneath  the  shade  of 
those  very  trees — crowd  fast  upon  him.  And  when  he  is 
told  of  the  sacrifice  she  made  to  give  him  Hfe,  he  reahzes 
the  strength  of  her  unselfish  devotion.  A  convulsive 
choking  he  has  not  known  since  childhood's  tearful  days 
swells  in  one  huge  sob  to  his  throat,  his  eyes  grow  dim 
with  a  sudden  mist,  and,  as  he  turns  feebly  away,  he  recalls 
the  words  of  a  long-forgotten  verse, — 

"  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this." 

In  the  days  to  come,  as  his  vigor  returns,  Edith  many  a 
time  walks  down  with  him  to  the  self-same  spot.  And  oft 
at  eve,  as  they  sit  and  talk,  happy  in  their  mutual  love,  the 
bell-bird  in  the  copse  hard  by  the  grave  intones  his  marvel- 
lous note, — a  clear  and  silvery  tolling  that  swells  upon  the 
passing  breeze,  like  the  mellow  vesper  chime  of  some  dis- 
tant forest  campanile. 

Their  happiness  is  no  longer  marred  by  the  shadow  of 
parental  disapproval,  for  when  the  squatter,  returning 
from  the  coast  to  Damper  Creek,  learns  from  his  foreman 
that  "  Miss  Edith  went  off  of  a  suddent  with  a  stranger 
woman  from  the  Gully,  and  left  no  word  behint,"  he  rides 
over  to  the  camp  to  ascertain  the  why  and  wherefore  of  her 
going. 

When  he  discovers  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  Gully  his 
anger  at  first  knows  no  bounds.  His  indignation  cools, 
however,  when  he  finds  that  Lyndon  is  no  longer  a  penni- 
less adventurer,  but  is  now  to  some  extent  a  man  of  wealth, 
with  a  prospect  of  becoming  indefinitely  wealthier,  since  he 
holds  a  half-share  in  a  quartz-lode  of  great  richness,  recently 
discovered  by  his  friend  Harte  ;  and  as  wealth  is  the  squat- 
ter's criterion  of  excellence  in  a  suitor,  the  obdurate  old 
man,  after  making  a  transparent  show  of  reluctance  as  a 
species  of  compromise  with  his  dignity,  yields  to  his 
daughter's  wishes,  and  sets  the  seal  of  his  approval  on 
her  choice.  As  a  si7ie  qua  non  to  this  act  of  parental  con- 
cession, he  exacts  from  Lyndon — a  somewhat  unnecessary 
measure,  Lyndon  thinks — an  assurance  that  he  will  abandon 
his  adventurous  life  and  settle  down  to  pastoral  pursuits  at 
Wollattara  Station. 


7©        IN  THE  "never  never  COUNTRY. 

And  so  it  is  arranged  that  they  shall  leave  for  the  South 
vid  Damper  Creek  as  soon  as  Lyndon  is  strong  enough  to 
undertake  the  journey.  As  a  preliminary  to  the  approach- 
ing exodus,  the  squatter  sells  his  station  at  Damper  Creek 
to  old  Van  Steen  at  a  very  profitable  figure,  and  Lyndon 
and  Harte  dispose  of  their  valuable  ' '  claim' '  to  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  Melbourne  syndicate  for  a  sum  sufficient  to 
secure  each  of  them  a  handsome  competence  for  life. 

Soon  the  day  arrives  which  is  to  be  their  last  in  Dirty 
Mary's  Gully.  Harte  having  arranged  with  old  Van  Steen 
for  the  horses,  and  instructed  the  black  boy  Jim  to  have 
them  ready  at  the  veranda  by  four  o'clock  the  following 
morning,  accompanies  Lyndon  to  the  bar  of  the  "  Golden 
Dawn."  Here  they  comply  with  the  Antipodean  custom 
of  "shouting"  for  all  hands  before  taking  their  departure, 
a  proceeding  which  meets  with  the  unqualified  approval  of 
the  individual  known  as  Yank,  who  remarks,  with  genial 
generality,  after  disposing  of  numerous  "nobblers,"  that  it 
is  ' '  real  nice  to  be  /seated  in  a  country  as  encourages  sech 
free  institootions," — an  observation  with  which  Blue  Peter 
evinces  his  entire  coincidence  by  expressing  a  sanguinary 

desire  to  witness  the  eternal  cremation  of  "  every 

cuss"  who  shall  advance  an  assertion  to  the  contrary. 

Next  morning  the  five  travellers — the  squatter,  Harte, 
Edith,  Lyndon,  and  the  black  boy  Jim — are  astir  long  be- 
fore daybreak.  The  horses,  saddled  and  packed,  neigh 
shrilly  at  the  hitching-posts.  Le  Harne,  "The  Professor," 
Blue  Peter,  Yank,  Bristol  Bill,  and  other  worthies  of  the 
Gully,  are  assembled  on  the  veranda  to  wish  them  "  God- 
speed." 

There  are  many  final  hand-shakings  and  good  wishes. 
Blue  Peter  alone  is  strangely  silent.  He  feels  that  he  can- 
not find  adequate  expression  for  his  regrets  in  Edith's 
presence;  but  at  the  last  moment  he  beckons  Harte  and 
Lyndon  aside,  and  gives  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  valedictory 
burst  of  unexampled  profanity. 

And  then  the  little  cavalcade  rides  slowly  down  the  wind- 
ing path  ;  past  the  belt  of  myall,  past  the  flood-swept  site 
of  Bristol  Bill's  humpy  up  the  opposite  ascent,  and  round 
the  bend.  At  the  end  of  the  great  curve  they  halt  for  a  few 
moments  to  take  a  last  look  at  their  late  abode  ere  the  turn 


IN  THE  "never  never  COUNTRY.  7 1 

in  the  path  hides  it  from  their  sight.  Two  hundred  feet 
beneath  hes  the  wide  circular  sweep  of  sand,  now  lost  to 
view  in  the  rising  morning  mists,  where  once  the  lower 
camp  stood.  On  the  other  side  of  the  vast  amphitheatre 
they  can  dimly  discern  the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  scat- 
tered tents  and  humpies  of  the  upper  camp.  But  as  they 
look,  the  shroud-like  vapors  roll  away  in  the  bright  beams 
of  breaking  day ;  the  towering  peaks  beyond  stand  out 
sharp  and  clear  against  the  roseate  glory  of  the  coming- 
dawn,  and  the  shadows  haunting  the  gloomy  depths  of  the 
gorge  flee  one  by  one  before  the  growing  radiance,  until 
the  headstone  that  marks  the  grave  of  Helen  gleams 
through  the  vanishing  pall  of  mist  like  a  spot  of  pure  white 
snow  on  the  dark  face  of  the  cliff,  as 

"  Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning  star 
Comes  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold." 


THE  SIREN  OF  THREE-MILE  BEND. 


Three-Mile  Bend  was  a  typical  Australian  mining- 
camp.  There  was  the  usual  mixture  of  languages,  creeds, 
and  nationalities,  and  representatives  of  almost  every  clime 
mingled  fraternally  or  otherwise  beneath  its  glowing  north- 
ern skies.  It  differed  perhaps  from  some  of  its  prototypes 
in  one  respect, — it  was  richer.  The  nuggets  lay  in  bushels 
beneath  the  yellow  sands  that  formed  the  bed  of  the  huge 
curve  in  the  creek  from  which  the  camp  took  its  name.  It 
was  situated  in  a  rugged  chain  of  mountains  near  the  Roper 
River,  in  the  Northern  Territory.  Remote  as  the  spot  was 
from  civilization,  the  magnetic  influence  of  the  royal  metal, 
finding  its  subtle  way  over  mountain,  desert,  creek,  and 
plain,  kindled  the  a2i7-i  sacra  fames  in  the  hearts  of  hun- 
dreds of  eager  fortune-seekers  in  the  far-off  cities  of  the 
south,  and  impelled  a  multitude  of  adventurous  spirits  to 
brave  the  hardships  of  those  distant  wilds. 

There  were  exciting  times  in  the  early  days.  An  insulting 
remark  often  cost  the  daring  speaker  his  life ;  men  settled 
old  scores — new  ones  too,  for  that  matter — with  the  knife ; 
and  whenever  the  stillness  of  the  night  was  broken  by  the 
sharp  crack  of  a  pistol-shot, — as  it  frequently  was, — those 
who  had  retired  to  rest  simply  turned  in  their  blankets  and 
muttered,  "  Another  '  chum'  lost  the  number  of  his  mess." 
There  was  no  restraint.  Law  and  order  did  not  exist  even 
in  name.  The  lust  for  gold  aroused  the  basest  passions  of 
the  human  heart  in  all  their  fierce  intensity.  For  gold, 
men  quarrelled,  fought,  and  died.  For  gold,  half  the  deca- 
logue was  set  at  naught.  For  gold,  honor  was  lost,  con- 
science stifled,  and  friendship  betrayed.  ' '  Aurum  omnes, 
victa  pietate  colerunt, " 
72 


THE  SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND.  73 

II. 

Dick  Hogan  and  Charles  Inglefield  were  two  among 
the  many  who  went  to  the  field,  Hogan  with  the  first  rush, 
Inglefield  some  twelve  months  later.  Two  individuals 
more  dissimilar  in  every  respect  it  would  be  impossible  to 
conceive.  Theirs  was  one  of  those  incongruous  friendships 
so  often  seen  in  mining-camps.  Inglefield  was  young, 
handsome,  and  graceful ;  Hogan  was  middle-aged,  rugged, 
and  plain.  Inglefield  was  a  Melbourne  'Varsity  man,  and 
consequently  educated,  while  Hogan' s  mental  attainments 
were  of  the  most  ordinary  kind.  Inglefield  was  shallow, 
selfish,  and  unprincipled ;  Hogan  was  simple,  generous,  and 
true-hearted. 

Their  connection  was  of  some  years'  standing,  and  dated 
from  a  day  when  Hogan  jumped  from  an  incoming  steamer 
in  Cleveland  Bay  and  perilled  his  own  life  to  save  that  of 
Inglefield,  who  had  been  accidentally  knocked  overboard 
from  the  deck  of  a  passing  cutter.  That  was  a  fortunate 
day  in  more  ways  than  one  for  Inglefield.  He  had  landed 
in  Queensland  several  months  before  with  a  few  hundred 
pounds,  a  liberal  education,  and  an  all  but  hopeless  pros- 
pect of  making  amends  for  a  wasted  life  in  Victoria  by  a 
new  start  in  the  younger  colony.  He  found,  as  many  be- 
fore him  had  done,  that  the  sine  qua  non  of  success  in  the 
new  country  was  work,  and  hard  work  at  that.  But  for 
work  of  any  kind  he  had  no  aptitude  or  inclination  what- 
ever. At  the  time  of  his  rescue  by  Hogan  he  had  done 
nothing,  his  little  capital  had  dwindled  to  two  figures,  and 
the  outlook  for  the  future  was  particularly  dismal. 

Hogan  at  that  time  was  a  simple-hearted,  ignorant  miner, 
who  could  barely  write  his  own  name.  Sensitively  con- 
scious of  his  deficiencies,  he  had  at  once  recognized  in 
Inglefield  a  mind  superior  to  his  own,  and  he  looked  up  to 
the  University  man  with  the  respect  ignorance  always  con- 
cedes to  education. 

Inglefield  was  at  first  amused  and  then  bored  by  this 
rude  homage,  but  finding  that  his  preserver,  so  far  from 
wishing  to  terminate  the  acquaintanceship,  seemed  to  take  a 
sort  of  fraternal  interest  in  him,  he  accepted  the  situation 
with  a  serenity  none  the  less  philosophic  in  that  Hogan, 
D  7 


74  THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND. 

with  the  effusive  generosity  characteristic  of  his  class,  in- 
sisted on  paying-  all  the  bills.  He  became  still  more  recon- 
ciled to  the  infliction  when  he  learned  that  Hogan  was  a 
successful  miner,  with  the  result  of  several  profitable  enter- 
prises on  the  Heberton  tin-fields  lying  to  his  credit  in  the 
Queensland  National  Bank  in  the  shape  of  a  snug  balance 
of  two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

In  view  of  this  comparative  wealth  Inglefield  felt  no  com- 
punction in  requesting  a  loan  of  fifty  pounds,  and  when,  in 
response,  Hogan  handed  him  a  check  with  a  vermicular 
signature  for  twice  that  amount  he,  figuratively  speaking, 
kicked  himself  for  his  moderation. 

One  evening  as  they  were  dallying  over  the  third  bottle 
in  the  smoking-room  at  their  hotel,  Hogan  said,  in  the  rude 
vernacular  of  the  bush,  "  Pardner,  you  are  a  scholard  an' 
I  ain't.  Now,  I've  spent  'bout  all  the  time  I  want  to  in 
this  yere  city,  an'  I'm  thinkin'  of  goin'  up  to  Cairns  nex' 
week  for  the  Mulgrave  to  prospect  a  bit.  I  was  made  for 
work,  /was,  an'  you  wasn't.  No  offence,  I  can  see  for 
myself.  You're  what  they  call  a  gentleman,  j/i?^  are,  an' 
I  ain't.  But  what  I  want  to  put  to  ye  is  this :  as  I  said 
afore,  I'm  no  scholard,  Fvi  not,  but  I  want  to  I'arn;  it's 
hard  work  doin'  business  when  you  can't  neither  read  nor 
write,  an'  bein'  as  you  ain't  got  no  money — no  offence, 
ye' re  welcome  to  half  I've  got — or  ye  wouldn't  ha'  bor- 
rowed o'  me,  an'  seein'  as  ye  seem  to  ha'  had  plenty  o' 
schoolin' ,  what  I  put  to  ye  is  this  :  you  come  along  wi'  me, 
an'  we'll  go  prospectin'  here  an'  there,  we  will, — I'm 
reckoned  pretty  lucky,  /  am, — an'  I'll  do  the  work  an'  ye 
can  take  half  the  dust,  providin'  you  I'arn  me  to  read  an* 
write  an'  figger  some,  for,  darn  my  skin,  I  never  had  no 
schoolin',  /didn't." 

Inglefield' s  eyes  gleamed  at  this  proposition.  An  arrange- 
ment in  which  he  received  half  the  profits  while  the  other 
undertook  all  the  labor — for  he  did  not  look  upon  his 
tutorial  duties  in  the  light  of  work — suited  his  temperament 
exactly.  But  he  thought  it  politic  to  affect  to  be  unable  to 
fall  in  with  the  scheme  ;  it  would  not  do  for  a  man  of  his 
superior  breeding  to  be  patronized  by  this  bush  boor. 
Hogan,  however,  was  not  to  be  denied.  He  repeated  his 
request,  as  Inglefield  had  calculated  he  would  do,  and  this 


THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND.  75 

afforded  the  latter  the  pretext  of  yielding  to  pressure.  So, 
as  he  phrased  it,  "  he  subordinated  his  personal  interests  to 
the  claims  of  friendship,"  a  spirit  of  magnanimous  self-denial 
that  touched  Hogan  very  deeply. 

The  preliminaries  having  been  agreed  upon,  Inglefield 
laid  aside  his  ' '  store  clothes' '  and  donned  the  moleskin 
trousers,  laced  leggings,  red  shirt,  and  broad-brimmed  hat 
of  the  typical  miner,  a  costume  that  became  his  graceful 
person  to  picturesque  advantage. 

The  curious  compact  between  them  was  rigidly  kept. 
During  the  following  two  years  Inglefield  received  quite  a 
respectable  sum  as  his  moiety  of  the  profits  resulting  from 
his  partner's  native  shrewdness  and  judgment,  while  Hogan' s 
humble  ambition  "to  read  an'  write  an'  figger  some"  was 
not  only  attained,  but  he  learned  to  express  himself  in  tol- 
erable English,  and  acquired  quite  a  little  fund  of  general 
knowledge  besides. 

At  Charters  Towers  they  heard  of  the  discovery  of  gold 
on  the  Roper  River.  Hogan,  believing  the  new  field  to  be 
one  of  great  promise,  proposed  to  go,  but  Inglefield  de- 
murred. The  novelty  of  a  miner's  nomadic  existence  had 
worn  away.  Moreover,  as  a  result  of  Hogan' s  labor  he 
again  had  a  bank  account,  and  he  longed  once  more  for  the 
excitement  and  dissipations  of  his  past  life.  At  Townsville 
they  parted,  but  not  before  Hogan  had  exacted  a  promise 
from  his  whilom  partner  to  come  north  and  rejoin  him  if 
the  field  should  turn  out  well. 

"  I  consider  you  my  partner  yet,"  he  had  said,  with 
moist  eyes,  as  they  shook  hands  for  the  last  time  at  the 
gangway  of  the  steamship  "  Warrego,"  "  and  half  of  what 
I  strike  is  yours  ;  and  I'll  write  to  the  post-office  at  Mel- 
bourne and  let  you  know  how  my  luck  pans  out."  The 
simple  miner  felt  the  parting  keenly,  for  during  the  two 
years  of  their  association  together  he  had  become  warmly 
attached  to  his  city-bred  chum.  But  Inglefield  at  heart 
despised  his  humble  friend.  His  shallow,  selfish  nature 
experienced  no  regret  at  the  severance  of  old  ties.  He 
sailed  southward  with  a  light  heart  and  a  heavy  purse, 
intent  only  on  the  meretricious  pleasures  to  be  purchased 
with  his  friend's  hard-won  gold. 


76  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

III. 

She  was  plump,  petite,  and  pretty,  with  a  profusion  of 
golden  hair,  a  pair  of  laughing,  violet  eyes,  and  a  rose-bud 
of  a  mouth,  which,  when  she  smiled,  rippled  into  dimples, 
and  disclosed  two  perfect  rows  of  -dazzlingly  white  and 
even  teeth  that  gleamed  like  pearls  in  a  coral  setting. 
Her  delicate  loveliness  was  a  revelation  to  the  miners  of 
Three-Mile  Bend,  and  aroused  quite  a  furor  of  admiration 
in  their  rugged  bosoms.  It  is  true  there  were  one  or  two 
other  women  in  the  camp,  but  they  were  middle-aged, 
slatternly  creatures,  whose  presence  did  not  inspire  any 
great  amount  of  chivalric  enthusiasm.  Compared  with 
these  she  appeared  to  the  astonished  miners  like  a  radiant 
vision  from  another  world. 

Her  arrival  in  the  camp  was  the  sensation  of  the  hour, 
and  robbed  the  current  topic  of  conversation — the  shoot- 
ing of  Red-nosed  Bob  by  Whistling  Pete — of  all  its  interest. 
They  called  her  the  Queen  of  the  Ranges,  an  appellation 
which,  however,  soon  became  abbreviated  to  Queenie. 

Two  months  agone  she  had  been  a  bar-maid  in  a  swell 
hotel  in  Sydney,  with  but  one  desire  in  life, — to  be  rich, — 
and  with  no  apparent  prospect  of  ever  attaining  that  am- 
bition. The  husband  of  the  woman  with  whom  she  then 
lived  was  an  ex-miner,  and  when,  seized  with  the  gold 
fever,  he  announced  his  intention  of  taking  his  wife  and 
family  to  the  new  El  Dorado,  she  resolved  to  go  with 
them.  An  idea  had  occurred  to  her  practical  mind.  She 
had  a  little  capital  of  some  three  hundred  pounds,  and 
with  this  she  determined  to  purchase  a  stock  of  liquors  in 
Sydney,  for  consignment  to  the  port  in  the  Arafura  Sea, 
and  transhipment  to  the  new  gold-field.  She  would  go 
there  and  retail  them  herself 

"There  is  five  hundred  per  cent,  profit  in  it,"  she  had 
said  to  herself,  ' '  and  who  knows  but  that  I  may  marry 
some  lucky  digger?" 

"  Go,  by  all  means,"  the  ex-miner  had  said,  in  answer  tc> 
her  request  for  advice.  ' '  A  hotel  on  a  gold-field  is  worth 
more  than  a  well-paying  claim,  and  with  your  face  you 
ought  to  draw  half  the  trade  of  the  camp.  Being  a  car- 
penter,  I  can  do  a  little  towards  giving  you  a  start.     I 


THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE    BEND.  77 

haven't  forgot  the  time  you  nursed  my  wife  through  her 
sickness,  and  I'll  build  a  shanty  for  you  first  thing  after 
we  get  there.     Yes,  go,  by  all  means. ' ' 

And  this  is  how  she  came  to  be  in  Three-Mile  Bend. 
She  was  not  slow  to  see  the  impression  she  had  made, 
and  she  determined  to  profit  by  it.  As  soon  as  her  stock- 
in-trade  arrived  by  the  pack-train  she  began  by  revolution- 
izing the  hotel  system  of  Three-Mile  Bend.  There  were 
half  a  dozen  other  "hotels"  in  the  camp,  dirty,  stuffy  little 
dens,  built  of  bark,  where  bad  whiskey  was  dispensed  in  a 
devil-may-care  sort  of  a  way  across  an  unplaned  board  that 
did  duty  for  a  bar.  "  Queenie's,"  as  the  miners  called  her 
place,  was  a  spacious,  well-lighted  "shanty."  The  bar 
was  covered  with  marbled  oil-cloth,  and  kept  scrupulously 
clean.  In  other  places  men  stood  up  to  drink  for  lack  of 
facilities  to  sit  down.  Queenie  had  several  tables  made. 
These  she  also  neatly  covered,  and  her  patrons  were  thus 
enabled  to  play  a  game  of  cards  in  comfort  whenever  they 
wished.  She  kept  her  liquors  in  tastefully-labelled  bottles 
instead  of  forbidding-looking  jars,  and  she  knew  how  to  mix 
all  kinds  of  drinks  that  were  grateful  to  palates  weary  of  a 
long  course  of  fiery  whiskey  and  flat  beer.  It  was  wonder- 
ful, too,  to  see  the  moral  power  she  exercised  over  the 
minds  of  these  lawless  men.  In  the  other  "  hotels"  fights 
and  shooting  scrapes  were  of  nightly  occurrence.  Nothing 
of  the  kind  ever  happened  at  Queenie's.  One  night  two 
miners  had  grown  quarrelsome  over  a  game  of  cards. 
Knives  were  drawn,  and  there  was  a  prospect  of  bloodshed, 
when  she  rushed  fearlessly  in  between  them  and,  with  flash- 
ing eyes  and  imperious  mien,  ordered  them  to  desist.  The 
two  men  stared  at  her  in  stupid  amazement  for  a  minute  or 
two,  then  they  laughed  and  shook  hands.  This  courageous 
action  on  the  little  woman's  part  endeared  her  to  the  hearts 
of  the  whole  community.  After  that  night,  if  any  man  had 
attempted  to  create  a  disturbance,  she  could  have  counted 
on  a  dozen  stalwart  champions  to  throw  the  brawler  out. 

She  understood  their  wild  natures  exactly.  She  had  a 
pleasant  greeting  for  every  one,  and,  in  the  evenings,  as 
she  glided  about  the  room,  smilingly  executing  her  numer- 
ous orders,  the  eyes  of  these  rough  men  followed  her 
dainty  figure  with  honest   admiration.     There  was   not  a 

7* 


78  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

man  among  them  who  would  not  have  been  willing  to 
do  and  dare  anything  for  her  sake. 

"  I  never  see  the  likes,"  said  Whistling  Pete,  the  camp 
oracle,  to  a  circle  of  bibulous  satellites.  "The  inflooence 
o'  that  little  critter  is  somethin'  amazin'.  Look  at  Big 
Mike.  He  never  shaved  for  ten  year,  an'  now  he's  gone 
an'  cut  off  his  beard  ;  he  parts  his  hair  in  the  middle,  an' 
wears  store  pants  all  the  time,  an'  all  on  account  o'  her. 
Then  there's  Fossicking  Bob,  who  never  was  known  to 
put  on  a  clean  shirt  till  the  one  he  was  wearin'  fell  to 
pieces,  so  to  speak.  He's  had  his  hair  cut,  an'  he  spruces 
hisself  up  every  night,  an'  sports  a  biled  dickey  an'  a  red 
tie.  Why,  I  believe  Whiskey  Jim  'ud  take  to  drinkin' 
soft  stuff  if  she  arskt  him.  Lord,  what  fools  these  wim- 
men  do  make  o'  us,  to  be  sure."  And  Whistling  Pete 
held  his  whiskey  against  the  light,  looked  through  it  criti- 
cally for  a  moment  with  one  eye  closed,  and  then  slowly 
swallowed  it  with  an  air  of  profound  meditation.  Whistling 
Pete  being  the  deadliest  shot  in  the  camp,  his  remarks 
were  followed  by  a  running  comment  of  acquiescence. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  the  little  adventuress  absorbed  fully 
three-fourths  of  the  patronage  of  the  camp,  and  that  dust 
and  nuggets  flowed  into  her  coffers  in  a  continuous  golden 
stream.  During  the  first  three  months  she  had  no  less 
than  six  offers  of  marriage.  To  attain  her  ambition  she 
was  quite  prepared  to  sacrifice  sentiment  to  riches,  and 
was  perfectly  willing  to  marry  any  man,  however  uncouth, 
if  he  only  had  the  recommendation  of  sufficient  wealth. 
But  her  would-be  lovers,  though  owners  of  rich  claims, 
spent  everything  they  earned,  and  she  had  learned  enough 
of  mining  vicissitudes  to  know  that  even  a  ' '  ten-ounce-a- 
day"  claim  may  "  play  out"  all  at  once  and  leave  its  owner 
with  no  more  capital  than  a  pick. 

There  was  only  one  man  in  the  camp  who  came  up  to  her 
mercenary  ideal.  His  name  was  Dick  Hogan.  The  miners 
called  him  "Lucky"  Hogan,  and  not  without  reason. 
His  claim,  which  was  by  far  the  richest  in  the  diggings, 
had  yielded  "pocket"  after  "pocket"  of  nuggets.  Hogan 
was  a  quiet,  reserved  man,  who  lived  a  solitary  life  in  a  tent 
remote  from  the  camp.  He  was  seldom  seen  away  from 
the  vicinity  of  his  claim,  save  when  he  came  into  the  Bend 


THE  SIREN  OF  THREE-MILE  BEND.  79 

to  deposit  his  gold  at  the  Bank  Agency,  and  he  had  never 
visited  Queenie's. 

She  had  several  times  heard  of  "  Lucky"  Hogan  and  his 
valuable  claim.  "  If  I  find  these  tales  are  true,"  said  the 
sprightly  little  adventuress,  "I'll  marry  him,"  and  she 
laughed  a  gay  little  laugh  at  her  own  conceit  in  leaving 
Mr.  Hogan' s  possible  objection  to  the  arrangement  out 
of  the  question  altogether.  So  one  evening  she  addressed 
a  cautious  inquiry  on  the  subject  of  Hogan' s  wealth  to 
Whistling  Pete,  who,  as  a  rule,  knew  a  great  deal  more 
about  his  neighbor's  business  than  he  did  about  his  own. 

"Why,  bless  yer  pretty  face,  miss,"  said  Whistling  Pete, 
with  bush  gallantry,  "Dick  Hogan's  claim  is  a  perfect 
Mount  Morgan.*  It's  bin  pannin'  out  fifty  ounces  a  day 
for  the  past  three  weeks,  an'  only  yesterday  he  struck  a 
vein  o'  quartz  in  a  new  prospect  that'll  likely  go  ten  ounces 
to  the  ton.  Why,  he  must  ha'  took  ten  thousand  pounds' 
worth  o'  gold  out  o'  the  hole  at  least,  an'  he's  refused  an 
offer  o'  thirty  thousand,   cash  down,  from  the  bank  since 

he  struck  the  reef,   an'    I  shouldn't  be  surprised   if " 

At  this  point  a  man  appeared  in  the  door-way,  and  Whist- 
ling Pete  paused.  He  bent  over  the  counter  and,  placing 
his  hand  to  his  mouth,  said,  in  a  stage  whisper,  "That's 
him,  miss.     That's  Lucky  Hogan  hisself " 

Queenie  glanced  towards  the  door,  and  saw  an  unkempt- 
looking  man,  apparently  about  forty-five  years  of  age, 
dressed  in  a  miner's  working-suit.  He  walked  with  a 
slight  stoop,  and  his  grizzled  beard  was  plentifully  sprinkled 
with  gray.  His  bearing  was  awkward  and  uncouth,  and  he 
had  never  in  his  best  days  been  more  than  an  ordinary- 
looking  man.  He  had  only  one  good  feature, — his  eyes, 
which  were  large,  dark,  luminous  orbs,  soft  and  tender  as  a 
woman's.  In  them  one  could  plainly  read  the  trustful, 
generous  nature  of  the  rugged  Croesus.  "Rough,"  thought 
Queenie,  "very  rough  ;  but  also  very  simple,  and  very  rich." 

Whistling  Pete  left  the  bar  and  walked  over  to  the  soli- 
tary table  at  which  Hogan  had  taken  his  seat.  He  was 
curious  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  lucky  digger's  unusual 
visit  to  Queenie's. 

*  The  richest  gold  deposit  in  Australia,  perhaps  in  the  world. 


8o  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

"  Good-evenin',  Mr.  Hogan,"  he  said,  deferentially. 
' '  Good-evenin' ,  sir.  It  ain'  t  often  we  have  the  pleasure 
o'  seein'  you  among  us  here." 

"No,"  said  Hogan.  "That's  a  fact.  This  is  the  first 
time  I've  been  so  far  from  my  claim  ;  but  I  heard  you  had 
tables  up  here,  and  I  came  around  the  bend  to  write  a  let- 
ter.    I  want  to  bring  my  partner  up  here  from  Melbourne." 

"  Why,  I  never  knowed  you  had  a  partner,  Mr.  Hogan," 
said  Whistling  Pete,  whose  curiosity  was  aroused  at  this 
piece  of  news. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hogan,  who  was  in  a  communicative  mood. 
"Yes,  he's  a  young  chap, — a  city  chap.  I  met  him  in 
Townsville  when  I  was  last  in  Queensland,  and  took  quite 
a  liking  to  him.  Mine  is  a  lonely  sort  of  life,"  he  continued, 
half  sadly,  "and  I'm  longing  for  companionship.  Then, 
again,  I've  got  some  sort  of  a  complaint  here," — he  placed 
his  hand  over  his  heart, — "  Anjner  pectris  I  think  the  Port 
Darwin  doctor  called  it, — I  didn't  rightly  catch  the  name, 
— which  takes  me  in  stiffish  spells  at  times.  My  partner 
promised  to  come  if  I  wrote  for  him,  and,  as  I'm  likely  to 
go  off  the  hooks  all  of  a  sudden,  I  thought  I'd  have  him 

by  in  case  anything  should  happen,   and  then "      A 

silvery  voice  interrupted  him.     It  said, — 

"  Mr.  Hogan,  what  shall  I  bring  you  to  drink  ?" 

The  miner  looked  up,  and  saw  the  lovely  face  and  won- 
derful eyes  of  the  little  adventuress  looking  smilingly  down 
into  his  own  rugged  visage.  He  had  often  heard  extrava- 
gant praises  of  this  woman's  beauty,  but  without  any  degree 
of  interest.  All  his  life  had  been  spent  in  the  bush,  and  he 
had  no  higher  ideal  of  womanhood  than  the  shanty-keepers' 
wives  with  whom  he  occasionally  came  in  contact  in  his 
wanderings.  Queenie's  dainty,  piquant  beauty  took  him 
quite  by  surprise.  He  stared  at  her  in  speechless  amaze- 
ment, until  Whistling  Pete,  who  chafed  at  any  delay,  how- 
ever slight,  with  a  drink  in  the  near  perspective,  put  an 
end  to  the  pause  by  ordering  whiskey  for  himself  and  writing 
materials  for  "Mr.  Hogan."  Hogan  gazed  after  her  in 
rapt  admiration  as  she  went  to  execute  the  order.  Though 
nothing  more  than  a  perfect  specimen  of  a  very  ordinary 
type  of  beauty,  to  the  untutored  miner  she  appeared  like 
a  goddess  amid  such  rude  surroundings.     His  eyes  dwelt 


THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND.  8l 

upon  the  supple  curves  of  her  small  and  graceful  figure, 
her  slender  white  hands,  her  snowy  throat  with  its  circlet 
of  creamy  lace,  and  caught  the  gleaming  sheen  of  her  dead- 
gold  hair  as  she  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  lamp-light.  And 
when  she  came  back  with  the  order,  and  turned  her  great 
violet  eyes  upon  him  and  smiled,  a  flush  arose  to  his 
weather-beaten  cheek,  and  he  dropped  his  gaze  in  awk- 
ward confusion. 

Before  he  left  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  "  Charles  Ingle- 
field,  Esq.,"  telHng  hhn  all  about  the  diggings,  and  remind- 
ing him  of  his  promise,  and  that  "  Charles  Inglefield,  Esq.," 
might  not  be  prevented  from  coming  by  lack  of  funds,  he 
inclosed  a  draft  on  the  Bank  of  Victoria  for  two  hundred 
pounds.  And  then  he  bade  her  good-night,  and  walked 
thoughtfully  home  to  his  tent. 


IV. 

Some  weeks  later  a  young  man  stood  on  the  steps  of 
the  Melbourne  post-office  reading  a  letter  he  had  just  called 
for.  He  was  evidently  surprised  at  its  contents,  and  he 
read  it  half  aloud  in  disjointed  scraps,  mingled  with  run- 
ning comments  of  his  own. 

"Took  three  thousand  pounds  out  in  three  months." 
"By  Jove!"  "Offered  thirty  thousand  pounds  in  cash 
for  the  reef"  "Whew!  Why,  damme,  the  old  boor 
will  be  a  millionaire!"  "Living  all  by  myself  and  feel 
lonely."  "The  devil  he  does;  so  do  I."  "You  prom- 
ised to  come  north  if  my  luck  panned  out  well."  "So 
I  did,  but  I  did  not  expect  my  own  luck  to  turn  out  so 
cursed  rough."  "I  should  be  very  pleased  to  see  you  ; 
will  you  come?"  "Will  I  come?  You  bet  I'll  come, 
my  unsophisticated  friend  ;  I  want  some  of  that  thirty 
thousand  pounds  very  badly, — especially  just  now."  "  I've 
always  considered  you  my  partner,  my  boy,  and  half  of 
what  I've  made  is  yours,  and  half  the  claim  also."  "  By 
Jove  I  this  is  the  devil's  own  luck."  "  I  send  you  a  draft 
on  the  Bank  of  Victoria  to  meet  your  expenses."  "It's 
/ 


82  THE  SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

deuced  fortunate  for  me  you  do."  And  "Charles  Ingle- 
field,  Esq.,"  tore  the  letter  to  fragments,  and,  having  re- 
freshed himself  with  a  brandy  and  soda  on  the  strength 
of  the  good  news,  walked  jauntily  to  the  Bank  of  Victoria, 
where  he  cashed  his  draft. 

Thence  he  went  to  the  office  of  the  Australian  Steam 
Navigation  Company  and  secured  a  cabin  passage  in  the 
next  steamer  for  the  north. 


V. 

After  his  first  visit  Hogan  became  a  regular  nightly 
frequenter  of  Queenie's.  She  was  the  first  beautiful 
woman  he  had  seen,  and  her  beauty  completely  fascinated 
him.  He  soon  appreciated  the  difference  between  the 
comfortable  bar  and  his  comfortless  tent.  Every  night 
he  was  greeted  with  a  smiling  welcome,  the  easiest  chair 
and  snuggest  corner  were  kept  for  him,  and  his  glass  of 
grog  was  always  mixed  exactly  to  his  taste.  And  Queenie 
would  come  and  sit  opposite  to  him  each  evening,  and 
laugh  and  chat  with  him  in  her  own  naive  and  charming 
manner  until  he  became  intoxicated  with  her  presence. 
He  had  no  intimates  in  Three-Mile  Bend,  and,  like  many 
men  who  lead  a  solitary  life,  he  was  addicted  to  a  habit  of 
expressing  his  thoughts  aloud. 

"This  won't  do,  Dick,  my  boy,"  he  said  to  himself,  at 
the  end  of  a  month;  "you're  getting  too  fond  of  that 
little  woman.  What  can  an  innocent,  delicate  young  thing 
like  that  have  in  common  with  a  rough,  weather-beaten 
hulk  like  you.  She's  made  of  different  clay  to  you  ;"  and 
he  looked  down  at  his  knotted,  toil-worn  hands  and  sighed. 
"You'll  have  to  knock  off  going  up  there,  or  you'll  be 
making  a  fool  of  yourself"  So  by  a  mighty  effort  of  self- 
restraint  he  remained  away  for  three  nights,  and  was  miser- 
able. For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  experienced  the  joy- 
lessness  of  his  existence.  He  looked  out  upon  the  circling 
chain  of  sun-baked  hills  and  the  wide  expanse  of  brown 
and  barren  plain.     All  his  toilsome  days  had  been  spent 


THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND.  83 

amid  solitudes  like  this,  and  the  only  gleam  of  sunshine 
that  had  brightened  his  lonely  life  had  been  his  friendship 
for  Inglefield.  But  now  his  solitary  heart  yearned  for  some- 
thing to  love,  something  to  cherish.  He  was  rich,  and 
could  afford  to  give  up  this  wandering,  friendless  existence. 
More  than  once  in  his  reveries  he  caught  himself  dreaming 
of  a  placid  retirement  in  some  lovely  spot  in  the  south. 
If  he  could  only  believe  that  Queenie  would  be  willing  to 
share  that  retirement  with  him,  he  would  indeed  be  happy  ; 
for  he  had  learned  to  love  the  little  woman  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  rugged,  faithful  nature.  But  how  could  this 
fair  young  creature  in  all  the  pride  of  her  youth  and  beauty 
possibly  care  anything  for  him,  a  gray-headed,  middle-aged 
man,  old  enough  to  be  her  father  ? 

"No,"  he  said  to  himself,  sadly;  "I'm  too  rough,  too 
old;  such  happiness  is  not  for  me.  I'll  go  near  her  no 
more."  But  his  strength  of  will  failed  him.  On  the  fourth 
night  he  was  again  in  his  accustomed  corner  at  the  hotel, 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hogan,"  she  said,  with  her  sweetest  smile, 
when  he  entered,  ' '  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  !  I  have  missed 
you  so  much.     I  was  beginning  to  fear  you  were  ill." 

The  miner's  sunburnt  cheek  flushed  with  pleasure  and 
hope  at  the  warmth  of  her  greeting.  Perhaps  she  cared 
something  for  him  after  all,  and  that  night  he  walked  home 
with  a  jauntier  step  and  a  lighter  heart.  "  I'll  wait  a  week 
or  two,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  she  hardly  knows  me  yet." 

Poor,  simple-minded  Hogan  !  She  knew  him  but  too 
well.  He  wore  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  and  the  keen 
woman  of  the  world  read  it  like  a  book,  and  laughed  in 
secret  at  her  easy  conquest. 

Every  day  now  he  left  off  work  at  noon  and  went  up  to 
the  hotel.  In  the  afternoon  the  bar  was  deserted,  and  he 
could  talk  to  her  alone.  He  always  brought  her  the  largest 
nugget  he  had  found  during  the  morning.  Many  a  time 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  approaching  the  subject  nearest  his 
heart,  but  he  hesitated  at  the  supreme  moment.  He  was 
entirely  ignorant  of  amorous  amenities,  and  knew  not  what 
to  say. 

"This  will  never  do,  Dick,  my  boy,"  he  said  to  himself 
one  night.  "You've  got  to  do  the  asking,  she  hasn't. 
You've  known  her   now  nearly  two  months,  and  you'd 


84  THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND. 

better  try  your  luck. ' '  Next  morning  he  went  to  work  at 
his  claim  as  usual.  In  the  first  cradle  of  dirt  he  washed  he 
found  a  nugget  of  gold  of  extraordinary  size.  It  was  the 
largest  that  had  been  found  on  the  field.  "  It'll  weigh  over 
three  pounds, ' '  he  said,  surveying  it  with  admiration.  "It's 
two  days'  work  in  itself,  so  I'll  knock  off  and  take  it  up  to 
her,  and  just  ask  her  to  take  it  along  with  myself. ' ' 

He  found  Queenie  seated  at  one  of  the  tables  in  the  bar 
engaged  in  some  feminine  occupation.  As  she  came  forward 
to  greet  him  with  a  smile,  he  thought  she  had  never  looked 
so  lovely.  He  sat  down  beside  her.  Several  times  he 
essayed  to  broach  the  momentous  subject,  but  each  time  he 
was  at  a  loss  for  words.  His  manner  was  nervous  and  em- 
barrassed ;  he  could  only  talk  disconnectedly  in  an  aimless 
way  upon  the  most  commonplace  topics.  At  last  he  mus- 
tered up  courage  to  come  to  the  point.  "  Miss,"  he  said, 
in  a  husky  voice,  and  then  he  gave  a  great  gulp  and  paused. 
She  sat  beside  him  apparently  unconscious  of  his  agitation, 
though  she  knew  very  well  what  was  coming.  "  Miss,"  he 
began  again,  "I — I — it's  a  fine  day."  Now,  there  had  not 
been  a  cloud  in  the  sky  for  months,  and  the  observation 
was  so  inapt  and  unexpected,  and  was  blurted  out  with  such 
comical  solemnity,  that  she  almost  laughed  outright  in 
his  face.  But  restraining  the  impulse,  she  leaned  for- 
ward, gazed  out  of  the  window,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise,— 

"  Why,  so  it  is,  Mr.  Hogan,  a  beautiful  day,"  as  though 
she  had  previously  been  under  the  impression  that  it  was 
raining  very  hard  outside. 

An  awkward  pause  ensued,  and  Hogan  shuffled  about 
uneasily  in  his  chair.  At  last  he  drew  in  a  deep  breath,  as 
men  do  when  about  to  undertake  some  great  physical  feat, 
and  stammered,  "I— I  wanted  to  ask  you  if— that  is,  I 
wanted  to  say — in  fact,  I — I — only  came  over — to — to — 
make  you  a  present."  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
drew  forth  the  nugget.  Queenie' s  eyes  gleamed  at  the 
sight  of  the  huge  yellow  lump  of  gold. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hogan,  I  cannot  take  it ;  at  is  too  kind  of 
you,"  she  said,  meaning  to  take  it  all  the  while.  He  pressed 
it  on  her,  and  she  took  it  with  feigned  reluctance.  Another 
pause.     Her  hand  toyed  with  the  nugget  in  her  lap.     Ho- 


THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND.  85 

gan  took  the  slender  fingers  in  his  horny  palm.  She  did  not 
withdraw  them,  but  turrned  her  head  away  with  an  admirable 
assumption  of  modest  confusion,  Hogan  was  emboldened 
to  proceed. 

' '  Miss, ' '  he  said,  in  a  low  tone  that  vibrated  with  intense 
earnestness,  "I'm  only  a  rough  miner,  I'm  not  much  to 
look  at  as  looks  go,  and  I'm  getting  on  in  years.  But  if 
I'm  rough,  I've  got  an  honest,  manly  heart,  and  it  would 
make  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  Territory  to-day  if — if — 
you'd  take  it  along  with  the  nugget," 

"  Mr.  Hogan,"  she  said,  with  demure  look  and  downcast 
eyes,  "I  have  long  had  a  sincere  regard  for  you,  and  if 

you  think  I  could  make  you  happy,  I "     She  paused, 

as  if  at  a  loss  for  words, 

"You  will  be  my  wife?"  he  added,  joyously. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  the  comedy  was  over. 

He  stayed  for  some  time,  and  talked  to  her  of  his  plans 
for  selling  the  reef  as  soon  as  it  was  developed  sufficiently 
to  ascertain  its  value.  This  suited  her  views  exactly  ;  she 
was  utterly  weary  of  this  rude  life,  and  longed  to  make  her 
appearance  as  a  woman  of  wealth  and  fashion  in  the  beau- 
inonde  of  the  south.  She  heard  of  the  existence  of  the 
partner  and  his  prospective  arrival  in  Three-Mile  Bend  with 
some  misgiving.  She  said  but  little  on  the  subject,  but  she 
inwardly  determined  that  Hogan' s  ridiculous  intention  of 
giving  him  a  half-share  in  the  claims  should  never  be  fulfilled. 
As  for  Hogan,  he  underwent  a  complete  metamorphosis. 
He  trimmed  his  unkempt  beard  and  changed  his  clay-stained 
garments  every  evening  for  store  clothes.  His  step  was 
sprightlier,  his  eye  was  brighter,  perfect  happiness  shone 
in  every  line  of  his  honest  visage,  and  he  looked  ten  years 
younger. 

A  week  or  so  later  a  pack-train  wound  slowly  into  camp 
along  the  creek.  When  it  halted  at  the  paddock  a  horse- 
man detached  himself  from  the  group  of  packers  and  rode 
up  to  Queenie's,  where  he  dismounted  and  stepped  up  to 
the  bar. 

It  was  not  yet  noon  ;  the  miners  were  at  work  in  the 
claims,  and  the  hotel  was  deserted.  The  new  arrival  was  a 
young  man  of  handsome  presence  and  graceful  bearing, 
and  when  he  saw  that  the  bar  was  attended  by  a  pretty 


86  THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND. 

woman,  instead  of  the  dishevelled  slattern  or  bearded 
ruffian,  as  is  usual  in  bush  shanties,  he  doffed  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  in  courteous  salutation. 

' '  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  am  likely  to  find  Mr.  Hogan  ?' ' 
he  inquired.  "The  packers  told  me  you  would  be  able  to 
direct  me  from  here." 

She  gave  him  the  required  information,  but  the  stranger 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  leave.  The  fact  is  he  was  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  so  pretty  a  woman  in  this  remote  spot, 
and  he  ordered  something  to  drink  that  the  interview  might 
be  prolonged.  In  the  course  of  half  an  hour's  conversa- 
tion he  found  that  beauty  was  not  her  only  charm.  She 
was  also  educated,  witty,  and  vivacious. 

"By  George!  she's  a  stunner,"  was  his  mental  com- 
ment as  he  strode  down  the  creek  towards  Hogan' s  claim. 
"  How  the  devil  did  she  get  into  this  God-forsaken  country, 
I  wonder?" 

"So  that's  Mr.  Charles  Inglefield,  the  partner,"  thought 
Queenie.  "Well,  it's  one  comfort  he's  a  gentleman,  and 
a  handsome  one,  too.  He  will  be  able  to  talk  to  me  in 
decent  English  at  any  rate,  which  will  be  quite  a  relief  from 
the  conversation  of  these  clownish  diggers." 

Inglefield  had  nearly  reached  the  solitary  tent  out  in  the 
bend  when  a  clay-stained  figure  emerged  from  a  hole  in  the 
ground  to  his  right.  It  was  Hogan  returning  from  work. 
The  miner,  who  was  short-sighted,  stopped  to  await  the 
stranger's  approach  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  recognized  his  part- 
ner he  rushed  forward  with  arms  extended.  ' '  God  bless 
you,  my  boy!"  he  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "You 
don't  know  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  you.  It's  been  mighty 
lonely  out  here  without  you  ;  why,  it  must  be  a  year  since 
we  parted.     But  come  and  look  at  the  claim." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  offered  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds  for  that  mud-hole?"  said  Inglefield,  looking 
down  into  the  claim  with  an  incredulous  air. 

"  No,  no,  not  for  this,  though  this  mud-hole,  as  you  call 
it,  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  I've  taken  eight  thousand 
pounds  out  of  that  hole, — half  of  it  is  to  your  credit  at  the 
Agency, — and  it  still  pans  out  close  on  twenty  ounces  a 
day.  The  claim  the  bank  wants  to  buy  is  a  quartz  reef  out 
there  in  the  ranges.     We'll  look  at  it  to-morrow.     It's  in 


THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND.  87 

your  name.  You  see  I  had  to  take  it  out  in  your  name, — 
it  don't  matter  whose  name  it's  in  being  as  we're  partners, — 
for  the  mining  laws  don't  allow  a  man  to  hold  two  'pros- 
pects' at  once  unless  he  buys  them,  and  this  one  here  was 
too  good  to  give  up,  so  I  registered  the  reef  in  your  name, — 
I'll  give  you  the  license  when  we  get  to  the  tent, — and  I 
pay  a  fellow  called  Whiskey  Jim  an  ounce  a  day  to  work  at 
it  to  keep  it  from  being  'jumped.'  There's  several  other 
reefs  been  found  since,  and  there'll  be  a  set  of  stampers  up 
in  a  month  or  two,  so's  we  can  crush  the  stone,  and  then 
we'll  put  a  whole  gang  at  work.  If  the  reef's  half  what  I 
think  it  is,  it's  dirt  cheap  at  three  times  thirty  thousand 
pounds. ' ' 

Inglefield  gasped.  Ninety  thousand  pounds,  and  this 
claim  was  in  his  name,  in  fact  was  his  property.  It  is  true 
Hogan  considered  himself  a  partner,  but  supposing  he 
quarrelled  with  Hogan,  supposing  he  wished  to  ,sell  and 
Hogan  didn't,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  him  from  doing 
as  he  pleased.  The  claim  was  his  absolutely,  and  Hogan 
would  have  no  voice  in  the  matter  at  all.  These  thoughts 
passed  through  his  mind  like  a  flash,  and  even  then  his 
scheming  brain  was  busy  devising  an  act  of  selfish  treachery 
against  the  humble,  generous-hearted  man  whose  toil  had 
placed  wealth  within  his  reach.  He  was  aroused  from  his 
thoughts  by  Hogan. 

"Come  with  me  to  the  tent,"  he  said.  "I'll  just  change 
my  clothes,  and  then  I'll  show  you  something  I  value  even 
more  than  the  claims." 

' '  What  on  earth  can  this  be  ?' '  thought  Inglefield.  "  By 
the  way,  Dick,"  he  asked,  as  they  walked  on,  "who  is  that 
remarkably  pretty  little  woman  in  the  shanty  over  there  on 
the  slope?" 

"  I  was  just  going  to  take  you  down  to  introduce  you," 
said  Hogan,  with  a  mysterious  smile. 

"  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life,"  continued  Ingle- 
field ;  ' '  one  would  never  expect  to  find  a  woman  of  her 
stamp  in  this  infernal  desert." 

"No,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Hogan;  "and  she's  just  as 
innocent  as  she  is  pretty,  though  she  does  keep  a  hotel ; 
and  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  boy, — I  may  as  well  tell  you 
now,  since  you've  seen  her, — I'm  the  luckiest  man  in  these 


88  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

diggings  in  more  ways  than  one.  She's  promised  to  be 
my  wife.     Congratulate  me." 

Inglefield  uttered  some  stereotyped  phrases  with  an  affec- 
tation of  warmth,  but  in  his  heart  he  was  thinking,  "What 
on  earth  can  that  woman  see  in  this  uncouth  old  chap  ?' ' 
Suddenly  he  remembered  the  claim.  ' '  Ah  !  ah  !"  he  said 
to  himself;  "I  have  it.  It's  the  claim  the  little  damsel 
with  the  violet  eyes  is  in  love  with,  not  the  man.  I  wonder 
what  she  will  say  when  she  finds  that  I  hold  the  certificate?" 
And  with  thoughts  like  these  in  his  mind  he  walked  with 
Hogan  up  the  creek  to  the  hotel. 

It  was  soon  noticed  by  the  miners  of  Three-Mile  Bend 
that  Hogan' s  partner  was  not  a  worker.  He  lounged  about 
Queenie's  all  day  long,  drank  wine,  and  laughed  and  talked 
with  the  pretty  proprietress  from  sun-up  to  sun-down. 
When  Whistling  Pete,  with  mild  sarcasm,  remarked  to 
Hogan  that  he  better  keep  a  watch  on  his  partner,  or  he 
would  "be  killin'  hisself  with  work,"  the  latter  replied, 
somewhat  warmly,  "That's  all  right.  The  boy's  no 
worker,  and  couldn't  work  if  he  tried.  He's  city  bred,  and 
never  did  anything  in  his  life.  But  I've  known  him  two 
years  now,  and  he  did  what  was  right  by  me  :  he  taught 
me  to  read  and  write,  and  in  fact  all  I  know.  Work's 
pleasure  to  me,  and  it  ain't  to  him,  and  if  he  don't  like  to 
work,  it's  nobody's  business  but  his  own.  I'm  his  partner, 
and  I'm  satisfied,  and  I  reckon  everybody  else  may  as 
well  be." 

As  for  Queenie,  she  was  delighted  with  Hogan' s  partner. 
He  knew  all  the  latest  gossip  from  the  great  southern  cities  ; 
his  manner  was  easy  and  well  bred,  and  he  had  a  way  of 
making  himself  agreeable  that  seemed  perfectly  delightful, 
after  the  rude  gaucheries  of  the  diggers.  And  Inglefield 
found  in  Queenie  a  woman  with  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  world  ;  a  woman  of  ready  and  cultivated  wit,  to  whom 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  talk,  and  he  saw  that  his  stay  in  Three- 
Mile  Bend  bade  fair  to  be  one  of  the  most  interesting  epi- 
sodes in  his  life,  instead  of  a  period  of  dreary  en7i2ii  as  he 
had  expected  it  would  be. 

During  the  day  the  miners  were  at  work,  and  little  or  no 
trade  was  done  at  the  bar.  Queenie  had  formerly  been  in 
the  habit  of  whiling  away  this  time  in  sewing  or  some  other 


THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND.  89 

feminine  occupation,  but  now  she  closed  the  place  and  took 
long  rides  with  Inglefield  along  the  creek  and  in  the  wooded 
valleys  of  the  ranges.  And  the  trustful  Hogan,  in  his  ig- 
norance of  the  ways  of  the  world,  saw  these  things  with  an 
approving  eye,  and  said, — 

' '  That' s  right,  my  boy  ;  it  must  be  lonely  for  her  up 
there  alone  these  long  days,  and  you're  just  the  chap  to 
talk  to  her  and  amuse  her."  A  hint  from  any  one  as  to 
the  possibility  of  treachery  on  the  part  of  his  friend  would 
have  been  taken  by  him  as  a  personal  insult,  and  he  would 
as  soon  have  doubted  his  existence  as  Queenie's  faith. 
And  so  these  daily  rides  continued,  while  Hogan  went 
about  his  work  in  blissful  fatuity,  happier  each  succeeding 
evening  in  that  he  was  one  day  nearer  his  wedding-day. 

Inglefield,  as  a  man  about  town  in  the  great  southern 
cities,  had  had  his  little  affaires  du  cceiir  by  the  dozen,  but 
steeled,  as  he  fancied  he  was,  against  the  arrows  of  the 
blind  god,  he  found  his  pulses  stirred  by  this  woman  as 
they  had  never  been  before.  There  was  an  indefinable  per- 
sonal charm  about  her  and  a  witchery  in  her  deep  violet 
eyes  that  enthralled  him.  One  afternoon  as  they  were  re- 
turning from  the  daily  ride  he  reined  in  his  steed,  turned 
towards  her,  and  said,  abruptly, — 

"Alice," — he  called  her  by  her  true  name,  which  no  one 
else,  not  even  Hogan  himself,  had  learned, — "  Alice,  I  love 
you."  She  raised  her  great  liquid  eyes  to  his  ;  the  glamour 
of  her  beauty  was  upon  him,  and  he  bent  forward  in  his 
saddle  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"Really,  Mr.  Inglefield,"  she  said,  with  calm  compo- 
sure, ' '  you  are  quite  histrionic.  What  would  Mr.  Hogan 
think  of  the  partner  in  whom  he  places  such  implicit  faith 
had  he  witnessed  this  little  scene?" 

"But,  Alice,"  he  said,  "do  you  really  intend  to  marry 
that  clod?" 

"Certainly  I  do,"  she  replied.  "Do  you  think  I  wish 
to  spend  my  entire  existence  in  this  Sahara  ?' ' 

"  But  at  any  rate  you  cannot  possibly  care  anything  for 
him  ;  he  is  old  enough  to  be  your  father." 

"You  forget  that  his  claim  is  worth  ever  so  many 
thousand  pounds,"  she  said,  with  a  cynical  little  smile. 

' '  You  are  mistaken, ' '  he  said,  laconically. 

S* 


go  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

"  How  SO?"  she  asked,  in  some  surprise. 

By  way  of  reply  he  drew  forth  a  paper,  which  he  handed 
to  her  to  read.  It  was  a  miner's  hcense  giving  him  the 
right  to  work  a  certain  claim  known  as  ' '  Eureka  Reef. ' ' 

"  What  does  this  mean?"  she  inquired. 

"It  means,"  he  answered,  in  a  triumphant  tone,  "that 
the  claim  is  mine.  It  appears  that  Hogan  was  not  allowed 
by  the  mining  laws  to  hold  two  claims,  so  he  registered  the 
Eureka  Reef  in  my  name.  The  claim  is  mine  absolutely, 
and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  sell  it  and  get  out  of  this 
infernal  desert." 

Her  face  grew  pale  as  marble.  So,  after  all,  her  scheme 
had  fallen  through,  and  her  dream  of  wealth  which  she  had 
thought  so  near  realization,  had  vanished.  She  spurred 
her  horse  ahead  that  he  might  not  see  her  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, but  he  caught  up  to  her  and  placed  his  hand  upon 
her  rein, 

"Alice,"  he  said,  "listen  to  me.  You  must  have  made 
money  since  you  have  been  here.  I  have  four  thousand 
pounds  which  Hogan  has  already  placed  to  my  credit  at 
the  bank,  and  I  can  raise  thirty  thousand,  perhaps  more, 
on  the  claim  to-morrow.  This  sum  will  enable  us  to  begin 
life  afresh  in  London  or  Paris,  where  we  have  the  advantage 
of  being  unknown.  Let  us  not  inquire  into  the  past,  which 
perhaps  in  either  case  will  not  bear  a  rigid  investigation. 
I  have  already  told  you  that  I  love  you.  Come  with  me." 
She  heard  him  out  in  silence.  Hardened  woman  of  the 
world  though  she  was,  such  a  piece  of  cold-blooded  villany 
as  this  infamous  proposition  to  rob  the  confiding  Hogan 
of  wife  and  fortune  at  one  stroke  made  her  shudder.  But 
she  could  not  allow  any  feelings  of  compunction  to  thwart 
her  ambition  ;  she  was  determined  to  attain  that  at  any 
cost. 

This  handsome  scoundrel  was  not  indifferent  to  her,  and 
he  really  owned  the  claim,  while  for  the  simple  miner  to 
whom  she  had  plighted  her  faith  she  did  not  care  one  jot. 
She  looked  up  into  Inglefield's  face.  "Let  us  leave  this 
frightful  place  as  soon  as  possible,"  she  murmured. 

"To-day  is  Monday,"  he  said,  "  I  will  go  down  to  the 
bank  and  obtain  an  advance  on  the  claim  in  the  morning, 
and  we  can  leave  in  the  afternoon  when  the  miners  are  at 


THE  SIREN  OF  THREE-MILE  BEND.  9I 

work.     This  will  give  us  ample  time  to  catch  the  coach  at 
Dead-Man's  Gulch." 

* '  But  do  you  know  the  way  ?' '  she  asked.  ' '  I  have 
heard  that  it  is  considered  a  very  dangerous  ride  for  those 
who  are  not  familiar  with  the  country. ' ' 

"Bah!"  he  said.  "It  is  a  mere  bagatelle.  The  first 
twenty  miles  are  in  the  ranges,  the  track  is  rough,  but  well 
defined.  Then  comes  a  stretch  of  seventy-five  miles  of 
sandy  plain,  which  is  monotonous  but  entirely  free  from 
danger.  We  have  only  to  ride  straight  ahead.  There  is 
a  water-hole  half-way  across  ;  it  is  barely  a  month  since  I 
made  the  journey,  and  I  know  the  landmarks  well." 

That  evening  she  went  about  her  business  as  usual,  and 
Hogan  thought  she  had  never  looked  so  bright  and  pretty. 
She  laughed  and  chatted  with  him  with  more  than  ordinary 
vivacity.  She  felt  no  qualms  of  conscience  at  the  blight 
she  was  about  to  bring  upon  this  man's  happiness  ;  perhaps, 
if  the  truth  were  known,  it  was  not  the  first  time  she  had 
done  this  thing. 

In  the  morning,  Inglefield  went  down  to  the  bank,  and 
asked  the  manager  point-blank  what  he  was  prepared  to 
offer  for  the  claim.  "I  have  already  offered  Mr.  Hogan 
thirty  thousand  pounds  for  it,"  said  the  official,  "and  I  am 
prepared  to  stand  by  the  bid." 

"But  Mr.  Hogan  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,'[  said 
Inglefield.  "The  claim  is  mine  and  is  registered  in  my 
name." 

"Yes,  I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  the  manager;  "but 
you  are  partners,  are  you  not?" 

"That  may  be,"  replied  Inglefield,  coolly;  "but  the 
fact  remains  that  this  claim  is  mine,  and  I  wish  to  sell  it." 

' '  I  should  not  care  to  act  in  the  matter, ' '  said  the  man 
of  business,  "  without  consulting  Mr.  Hogan." 

"Very  well,"  said  Inglefield,  "I'll  bid  you  good-morn- 
ing ;  with  such  a  property  I  need  not  hunt  for  a  purchaser. ' ' 

Now,  the  manager  was  perfectly  well  aware  of  the  great 
value  of  the  reef ;  he  knew  that  it  was  a  bargain  at  twice  the 
sum  he  had  offered.  The  claim  was  indubitably  Inglefield's, 
and  though  he  knew  that  in  selling  it  Inglefield  was  guilty 
of  the  basest  ingratitude  towards  Hogan,  he  could  not  allow 
ethics  to  stand  in  the  way  of  business. 


92  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

"I'll  repeat  the  original  offer,"  he  said,  as  Inglefield 
turned  towards  the  door. 

"  I  want  fifty  thousand  pounds,"  said  Inglefield. 

"I  cannot  increase  my  advance,"  said  the  manager. 
Though  after  half  an  hour's  discussion  he  did  increase  it 
by  five  thousand  pounds,  for  he  was  as  anxious  to  secure 
the  property  as  Inglefield  was  to  sell  it.  At  this  price  the 
bargain  was  made,  and  Inglefield,  having  signed  the  neces- 
sary transfer  papers,  left  the  agency  with  a  sight  draft  on 
Sydney  for  that  amount,  together  with  his  credit  balance  in 
his  pocket. 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  two  sturdy  little  pack- 
horses  stood  in  front  of  Queenie's  fully  equipped  for  the 
journey  to  Dead-Man's  Gulch.  Inglefield  strode  up  and 
down  the  veranda  waiting  impatiently  for  Queenie.  She 
came  forth  looking  very  lovely  in  a  short  dark-blue  habit. 
In  her  hand  she  held  a  huge  nugget  of  gold, — Hogan's  last 
gift.  "We  may  as  well  take  this,"  she  said,  handing  it  to 
Inglefield,  who  placed  it  in  a  pouch  at  his  belt.  "  I  think 
that  is  all,"  she  added,  "except  my  money;  I  have  over 
two  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "We  can 
draw  against  that  in  Sydney."  He  was  about  to  lift  her  in 
the  saddle  when  the  tall  form  of  Whistling  Pete  appeared 
on  the  scene.  Whistling  Pete,  having  had  a  run  of  bad 
luck,  had  given  up  work  for  the  day  several  hours  earlier 
than  usual,  and  was  coming  up  to  Queenie's  to  drown  his 
disgust  in  a  "  nobbier' '  or  two  of  whiskey. 

"Afternoon,  miss,"  he  said. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Pete,"  replied  Queenie,  without 
the  slightest  trace  of  discomposure.  "You  came  just  in 
time  to  do  me  a  favor.  Mr.  Inglefield  and  I  are  going  for 
a  rather  longer  ride  than  usual,  and  I  should  be  so  much 
obliged  if  you  would  attend  to  the  bar  in  my  absence.  In 
case  we  are  not  back  by  the  time  Mr.  Hogan  comes  up, 

you  might  tell  him But  stay,  I'll  write  him  a  little 

note.  I'll  not  be  a  moment,"  she  said,  turning  to  Ingle- 
field. She  went  into  her  room  at  the  back  of  the  bar,  and 
wrote  a  few  lines.  "There,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her 
sweetest  smiles,  "  if  you  will  give  that  to  Mr.  Hogan  for 
me  it  will  explain  my  absence." 


THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND.  93 

"  I  wrote  the  note  for  a  purpose,"  she  said,  in  reply  to 
an  inquiry  Inglefield  made  as  to  its  necessity  as  they  rode 
away.  "  He  will  not  feel  inclined  to  follow  us  after  he  has 
read  it." 

Whistling  Pete  gazed  after  them  until  a  turn  in  the  track 
hid  them  from  view.  "  I  reckon  you  are  going  for  a  ride, 
an'  a  mighty  long  ride,  too,"  he  muttered, — his  quick  eye 
had  noticed  the  water-bottles  and  bags  of  corn  at  the  saddle- 
bows,— "an'  if  I  tend  the  bar  till  ye  return  I  reckon  this 
yere  claim's  mine  ontirely." 

Whistling  Pete  was  not  troubled  by  any  punctilious  scru- 
ples. As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  he  opened  the 
note  and  spread  it  out  flat  upon  the  bar.  Unfortunately, 
however,  his  early  education  had  been  neglected.  He 
could  read  the  label  on  a  bottle  with  remarkable  facility, 
but  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  decipher  a  transcript 
from  an  Egyptian  obelisk  as  the  fine  Italian  hand  in  which 
Queenie's  note  was  written.  At  sun-down,  when  the  miners 
returned  from  work,  they  found  Whistling  Pete  behind  the 
bar  rearranging  the  bottles  on  the  shelves  with  a  proprie- 
tary air. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  handing  the  note  to  Whiskey 
Jim.      "  Read  her  out  aloud." 

Whiskey  Jim  took  the  note,  and,  assuming  a  tragic  man- 
ner, read  as  follows  : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Hogan, — In  accepting  your  generous  offer  of  marriage 
I  fear  I  allowed  mj'self  to  construe  mere  sentiments  of  a  warm  regard 
into  the  promptings  of  affection,  for  I  liave  lately  learned  that  that  un- 
divided love,  without  which  no  union  can  be  truly  happy,  is  not  mine 
to  give  you.  Believe  me,  I  am  sincerely  sorry,  for  I  esteem  you  very 
highly.  But  we  cannot  control  the  dictates  of  our  hearts ;  and  since 
that  love  which  I  had  thought  was  yours  has  been  won  by  another,  I 
feel  sure  you  will  not  be  unwilling  to  terminate  our  engagement.  I 
deemed  it  best  to  write,  as  being  less  painful  to  both  of  us  than  a  per- 
sonal explanation. 

"We  leave  for  the  coast  on  the  Saturday  coach. 

"Wishing  you  every  happiness  and  prosperity  in  all  your  under- 
takings, I  am, 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  QUEENIE." 

' '  I  knowed  it !' '  shouted  Whistling  Pete,   striking  the 
counter  with  his  clinched  fist  till  the  glasses  rang  again. 


94  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

"She's  bolted.  I  knowed  it  when  I  seen  'em  this  after- 
noon. An'  consequently,  bein'  as  she  has  bolted,  I  hereby 
perceed  to  jump  this  yere  claim.  Drink  up,  boys,  it's  my 
shout  this  time." 

The  close  intimacy  existing  between  Inglefield  and 
Queenie  had  been  the  subject  of  general  comment.  No 
one  was  much  surprised  at  her  flight,  but  every  one  was 
curious  to  see  what  effect  it  would  have  upon  Hogan.  It 
was  growing  dark  when  they  saw  him  coming  along  the 
flat,  a  little  ahead  of  his  usual  time.  He  had  not  felt  well 
that  day.  That  alarming  sensation  of  constriction  about 
the  chest,  attacks  of  which  had  been  rather  frequent  of  late, 
had  affected  him  all  morning,  and  he  had  left  off"  work 
earlier  than  usual.  He  called  at  the  bank  on  his  way  to 
Queenie' s  to  deposit  the  result  of  the  past  two  days'  labor. 
"There  seems  to  be  no  end  to  my  luck,"  he  said  to  the 
manager,  in  a  cheery  voice,  as  that  official  weighed  the 
gold.  "  I  struck  another  reef  to-day,  and  in  my  original 
claim,  too.  I  want  to  see  you  some  time  during  the  week. 
I'm  thinking  of  floating  the  two  claims  into  a  company; 
but  I  must  talk  to  my  partner  first  and  see  what  he  thinks 
of  it." 

"Your  partner  was  in  here  this  morning,  Mr.  Hogan," 
said  the  manager,  "and  he  sold  the  Eureka  claim  to  me." 

Hogan  could  scarcely  believe'  his  ears.  "Sold  the 
Eureka  claim?"  he  repeated  slowly,  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  aright. 

"  Yes,  and  he  seemed  anxious  to  sell,  too.  The  claim 
was  registered  in  his  name  ;  and  business  is  business,  you 
know,  Mr.  Hogan,"  said  the  manager,  with  an  apologetic 
air. 

' '  What  did  you  advance  on  the  claim  ?' '  asked  the  miner, 
in  an  agitated  voice. 

"Thirty-five  thousand  p(^unds." 

"Thirty-five  thousand  pounds  !  and  in  six  months  it  will 
be  worth  a  hundred  thousand." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Hogan' s  heart  was  filled  with 
anger.  He  was  deeply  hurt  that  his  friend  should  have 
taken  it  upon  himself  to  sell  the  reef  without  asking  his 
opinion.  He  had  discovered  and  developed  it,  and  knew 
its  value ;   and  now  the  claim,  which  would  have  made  a 


THE  SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND.  95 

fortune  for  both  of  them,  had  been  foolishly  sold  for  a  third 
of  its  value.  He  left  the  bank  abruptly  and  walked  up  to 
the  hotel,  filled  with  feelings  of  just  resentment  at  the  folly 
of  his  friend.  As  yet  no  thought  of  treachery  crossed  his 
mind. 

Whistling  Pete  was  officiating  behind  the  bar.  Hogan 
saw  nothing  extraordinary  in  this,  as  Queenie  frequently 
asked  this  man  to  assist  her,  much  to  his  own  satisfaction, 
as  his  services  were  paid  in  kind.  Nor  did  he  notice  the 
sudden  silence  that  fell  upon  the  crowd  when  he  entered,  or 
observe  the  curious  looks  with  which  they  regarded  him. 
"Where's  my  partner?"  he  asked,  in  evident  perturba- 
tion. 

"He  went  out  ridin',  as  usual,  with  Miss  Queenie  this 
afternoon,"  said  Whistling  Pete. 

"  I  want  to  see  him  as  soon  as  he  comes  back  ;  he's  sold 
my  claim — our  claim  ;  leastways,  it  was  in  his  name.  I  had 
to  take  it  in  his  name,  but  the  claim  was  mine ;  though, 
being  my  partner,  of  course  he  had  a  half-share,"  Hogan 
blurted  out  in  his  agitation. 

"  Sold  the  Eureka  claim?"  asked  a  dozen  curious  voices. 

' '  Yes,  and  for  less  than  half  its  value. ' ' 

Whistling  Pete  gave  utterance  to  the  long  low  whistle 
that  had  earned  him  his  sobriquet.  "I'm  sorry  for  ye, 
Mr.  Hogan,"  he  said,  with  a  ring  of  pity  in  his  rough 
voice,  "  but  brace  yerself  like  a  man,  for  I'm  afeard  there's 
worse  news  for  ye  ;"  and  he  handed  him  Queenie's  note. 
Hogan  opened  it  without  the  least  suspicion  of  the  blow 
that  was  to  fall.  At  first  he  did  not  seem  to  fully  compre- 
hend the  import  of  those  hypocritical  sentences,  but  as  the 
heartless  treachery  of  the  faithless  pair  dawned  upon  him  in 
all  its  naked  truth,  an  ashen  hue  overspread  his  tanned  and 
weather-beaten  cheek,  and  all  the  light  and  life  seemed 
crushed  out  of  his  being  at  a  blow.  The  scene  about  him 
grew  blurred  and  indistinct,  a  rushing  noise  surged  within 
his  brain,  his  lips  moved,  but  they  uttered  no  sound.  A 
frightful  feeling  of  suffocation  oppressed  him  ;  he  placed  his 
hand  on  his  heart  and  swayed  to  and  fro  like  a  drunken 
man.  With  a  mighty  effort  he  recovered  himself  These 
men  should  not  see  his  agony  and  mock  at  his  misery  and 
shame.     He  crushed  the  note  in  his  hand,  turned  his  pale 


96  THE  SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

face  upon  the  company  with  a  ghastly  smile,  and  then 
walked  slowly  but  firmly  out  of  the  place, 

"He  didn't  seem  to  take  it  much  to  heart,"  said  Big 
Mike,  with  a  grin.  "If  it  had  been  me,  now,  I'd  ha'  got 
my  horse  an'  rode  after  them,  an'  had  a  word  or  two  to  say 
to  that  young  whipper-snapper  of  a  pardner  o'  his'n." 

"Takes  it  quieter  than  /expected,"  said  several  other 
miners. 

"  Cures  leves  loquunter  ingentes  stupe^tt,^'  quoted  the 
drunk-sodden  ex-Oxonian  known  as  Whiskey  Jim. 

"You're  right,  Jim,"  added  Whistling  Pete,  who  had 
caught  the  sound  of  the  last  syllables.  "The  gent  is 
stoopid, — knocked  r(?;«pletely  stoopid." 

And  then  the  crowd  adjourned  to  the  bar  to  discuss  the 
affair  in  detail  over  their  drink.  Meanwhile,  Hogan  walked 
towards  his  tent  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He  lifted  the  flap 
and  stepped  inside.  Mechanically  he  lighted  his  lamp,  and 
stood  for  some  minutes  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  passing 
his  hand  across  his  vacant  eyes  as  though  trying  to  re- 
call something  he  had  forgotten.  Then  he  read  the  note 
again.  Its  cold  tone  cut  him  to  the  heart.  How  could  she 
have  done  this  shameful  thing, — she  whom  he  had  believed 
to  be  so  childlike  and  innocent,  and  on  whose  faith  and 
purity  he  would  have  staked  his  very  soul  ?  And  his  part- 
ner, too,  the  man  he  had  befriended  and  enriched,  the  man 
he  had  loved  as  a  brother,  how  could  he  be  guilty  of  such 
double-dyed  treachery  ?  He  groaned  in  his  agony  of  spirit. 
But  now  mingling  with  his  keen  mental  anguish  there  came 
a  sharper  physical  pain.  Another  of  those  spasms  from 
which  he  had  suffered  at  intervals  during  the  past  year 
came  over  him.  His  heart  felt  as  though  it  were  being 
crushed  in  the  grip  of  a  vice.  He  gasped  for  breath  like  a 
drowning  man,  beating  the  air  with  clinched  hands,  and 
then,  uttering  a  loud  cry,  he  fell  forward  with  arms  out- 
stretched upon  the  floor. 


THE  SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND.  97 

VI. 

Night  falls  in  the  ranges  as  a  man  and  woman  pick 
their  cautious  way,  on  horseback,  over  the  stony  mountain 
track.  In  the  recesses  of  a  gloomy  defile  they  hear  the 
clatter  of  approaching  hoofs,  and  a  voice  hails  them  in  the 
darkness,  "  How  far  to  Three-Mile  Bend?"  They  cannot 
see  the  solitary  horseman,  but  the  sound  of  his  voice  agi- 
tates the  woman  strangely.  She  involuntarily  spurs  her 
horse  ahead  as  her  companion  shouts  in  reply,  "Fifteen 
miles,  and  deuced  rough  at  that."  They  continue  their 
way  through  narrow  gorges  and  rocky  plateaux,  trusting 
to  the  instinct  of  their  steeds,  for  they  cannot  see  the  track. 
At  last  they  descend  and  reach  the  plain.  A  strip  of  sandy 
desert  seventy-five  miles  in  width  lies  between  them  and 
the  next  range  in  which  their  destination  lies.  But  it  is 
nothing.  Did  they  not  both  cross  this  same  strip  before 
when  they  came  to  Three-Mile  Bend?  It  was  a  safe  enough 
journey  then  ;  they  simply  rode  straight  ahead.  They  do 
not  know  that  this  narrow  strip  is  but  the  corner  of  a  vast 
barren  tract  that  extends  miles  upon  miles  to  the  westward  ; 
they  forget  that  when  they  crossed  this  strip  before  they 
were  under  the  leadership  of  men  who  knew  the  country  ; 
they  forget  that  these  shifting  sands  are  constantly  obliter- 
ating old  landmarks  and  forming  new  ones  ;  or,  if  they 
think  of  these  things,  they  heed  them  not.  They  have 
but  just  time  to  catch  the  coastward  coach  at  Dead-Man's 
Gulch.  Their  horses  are  still  fresh,  and  they  themselves 
feel  no  fatigue.  They  decide  to  ride  on  in  the  cool  night- 
time ;  it  will  be  better  to  halt  during  the  heat  of  the  day  at 
One-Tree  Water-Hole,  which  is  something  less  than  half- 
way across.  And  so  with  the  confidence  born  of  ignorance 
of  the  perils  of  the  bush  they  ride  blindly  onward  in  the 
darkness. 

Several  hours  before  sunrise  they  halt,  though  they  have 
not  yet  reached  One-Tree  Water-Hole.  They  have  trav- 
elled many  miles  since  starting,  and  the  horses  are  now  in 
need  of  rest.  So  they  hobble  the  hardy  animals,  give  them 
a  feed  of  corn,  and  lie  down  themselves  to  snatch  a  brief 
repose  while  the  air  is  yet  cool.  When  they  awake  the 
sun  is  high  in  the  heavens.  There  is  nothing  in  sight  but 
E       5-  9 


98  THE  SIREN  OF  THREE-MILE  BEND. 

an  undulating  sea  of  sand.  They  look  for  the  track.  Fatu- 
ous fools,  to  expect  to  find  a  track  in  the  ever-changing 
surface  of  that  sandy  waste. 

As  yet  they  feel  no  alarm.  Why  should  they?  The 
strip  is  barely  seventy-five  miles  wide.  They  have  only  to 
ride  straight  ahead,  as  they  did  on  the  journey  out,  and 
they  are  bound  to  reach  the  water-hole,  or  sight  the  other 
range  in  an  hour  or  two  at  the  least.  But  sundown  finds 
them  in  the  centre  of  an  unbroken  circle  of  earth  and  sky. 
They  camp  for  the  night  with  feelings  of  chagrin  rather  than 
of  alarm.  They  must  reach  Dead-Man's  Gulch  by  Friday 
night  or  they  will  miss  the  coach.  This  thought,  and  not 
the  idea  of  their  danger,  is  uppermost  in  their  minds. 

At  sunrise  they  start  again.  The  horses  have  had  no 
water  for  nearly  forty  hours,  and  are  beginning  to  show 
signs  of  distress.  But  they  must  push  forward.  About 
noon  the  weary  horses  prick  up  their  ears,  sniff  the  air 
joyously,  and  break  into  a  canter.  A  thin  line  of  brush 
appears  ahead,  and  beyond  something  gleams  in  the  sand 
like  a  sheet  of  glass. 

"Hurrah!"  shouts  the  man.  "The  water-hole  at 
last." 

The  horses  race  madly  towards  the  water,  and  the  pool  is 
soon  reached.  To  their  surprise  the  animals  instead  of 
drinking  deeply  merely  dip  their  noses  into  the  water  and 
turn  away.  The  man  dismounts  and  kneels  down  in  the 
sand  to  take  a  drink  himself 

"  Good  God  !  the  water  is  as  salt  as  brine."  It  is  not 
One-Tree  Water-Hole  after  all,  but  one  of  those  salt  lagoons 
so  common  in  the  Australian  desert. 

The  woman  grows  deathly  pale  and  trembles  violently. 
She  is  the  first  to  realize  their  perilous  position.  The  man 
tries  to  reassure  her,  though  his  own  confidence  has  left  him. 
But  they  have  no  time  to  dally,  there  is  only  a  quart  of 
water  left  in  the  canvas  bottles.  They  have  evidently  gone 
too  far  to  the  westward.  If  they  now  ride  eastward  they 
will  doubtless  make  the  hills,  though  too  late  for  the  coach. 
But  rundown  again  finds  them  in  the  centre  of  an  unbroken 
circle.  They  halt  near  a  huge  hummock  of  drifted  sand. 
The  horses  are  dead  beat  and  can  go  no  farther.  They  lie 
down,  making  piteous  noises,  and  the  woman  sees  that  they 


THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE    BEND.  99 

will  never  rise  again.  The  travellers  sleep  through  the  night 
in  spite  of  the  black  outlook  before  them.  When  day 
breaks  their  prospects  are  still  gloomier  :  both  the  horses 
are  dead.  They  have  but  a  pint  of  water  between  them 
now,  but  as  a  forlorn  hope  they  set  out  on  foot  to  the  east- 
ward in  the  hope  of  yet  making  the  hills.  On,  on  they  go 
in  the  blinding  glare  until  the  woman  is  ready  to  faint  with 
heat  and  fatigue.  Long  before  noon  the  last  drop  of  water 
is  gone,  and  still  the  same  unbroken  circle  surrounds  them 
on  every  side. 

Another  hummock  of  sand  looms  up  ahead,  and  they 
hasten  their  faltering  steps  to  gain  a  moment's  respite  from 
the  oven-like  heat  in  its  friendly  shade.  What  are  those 
dark  objects  in  the  sand  beyond?  They  strain  their  eyes. 
The  woman  utters  a  shriek  of  horror.  She  recognizes  the 
bodies  of  their  horses.  They  have  returned  to  the  starting- 
point  of  the  morning.  They  have  been  traveUing  in  a  circle. 
They  are  ' '  bushed. ' ' 

The  woman  flings  herself  upon  the  man's  breast  and 
clasps  his  neck  in  a  frenzy  of  terror,  and  then  sinks  help- 
lessly down  in  the  shadow  of  the  hummock.  All  hope  is 
gone  now.  She  clasps  her  knees  with  her  hands  and  bows 
her  head.  Her  long  hair  falls  about  her  shoulders  as  she 
rocks  herself  to  and  fro  in  the  very  abandonment  of  despair. 
And  the  burning  sun  shines  pitilessly  on,  and  the  brown  and 
barren  waste  smokes  with  the  heat,  and  a  silence  as  of  death 
broods  over  the  desert.  Throughout  that  blazing  afternoon 
and  calm,  starlit  night  they  sit  there  motionless  and  silent 
— words  are  useless  now — and  await  the  end. 

Yet  another  day  breaks, — a  day  of  mental  and  physical 
torture.  During  the  burning  hours  that  seem  unending 
they  lie  panting  in  the  small  area  of  shade,  their  bodies 
racked  by  the  agonies  of  thirst.  The  cool  air  of  evening 
brings  no  relief ;  wild-eyed  and  haggard,  they  pass  another 
night  in  sleepless  horror.  They  dread  the  torments  of  the 
coming  day.  Once  more  morning  dawns  upon  the  desert 
and  finds  them  both  alive.  All  that  day  the  woman  leans 
helplessly  back  against  the  hummock  of  sand.  Her  strength 
is  spent ;  her  tongue  cleaves  to  her  palate,  and  she  cannot 
speak.  She  sits  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  hazy  horizon  in 
hopeless  vacancy.    The  sun  is  yet  high  in  the  heavens  when 


lOO  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

she  turns  feebly  towards  the  man  ;  a  look  of  piteous  agony 
is  in  her  haggard  eyes  ;  she  clutches  his  hand  convulsively, 
and  with  a  faint  gurgling  moan  leans  back  in  his  arms  to  die. 
The  man,  too,  sutTers  frightfully,  but  his  stronger  organiza- 
tion dooms  him  to  agonies  more  prolonged.  He  lays  the 
dead  body  down,  and  rising  to  his  feet  shades  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  and  scans  the  wide  circumference  for  some  faint 
sign  of  hope.  Poor  wretch  !  The  shipwrecked  sailor  adrift 
on  the  pathless  ocean  has  a  better  chance  of  rescue  than  he. 
He  gazes  hopelessly  at  the  huge  coppery  disk  of  the  set- 
ting sun  as  it  slowly  sinks  below  the  level  of  the  plain.  He 
knows  that  he  will  never  see  it  again.  Darkness  deepens 
over  the  wide  expanse,  and  the  man  flings  himself  face  down- 
ward upon  the  earth  and  prays  for  death  until  fitful  slumber 
steals  over  his  wearied  senses.  Throughout  the  night  he 
tosses  and  turns  in  his  troubled  sleep,  oppressed  with  a 
hideous  nightmare.  Grim  goblin  forms — creatures  of  his 
fevered  brain — hover  about  his  sandy  pillow,  and  menace 
and  mock  and  taunt  with  frightful  gestures.  An  hour  be- 
fore sunrise  he  awakes  from  the  ghastly  phantasm  with  a 
shuddering  shriek,  and  awaits  in  dumb  despair  the  dawning 
of  his  last  day  of  Hfe.  Anon  the  sun  leaps  above  the  edge 
of  the  desert,  and  the  day  begins.  Higher  and  higher 
mounts  the  blazing  orb  ;  hotter  and  hotter  grows  the  air. 
The  man  lies  gasping  in  the  sand  like  a  hunted  animal,  and 
his  swollen  tongue  vainly  licks  his  dry  and  blackened  lips 
for  relief  from  the  torment  of  thirst.  But  lo  !  a  gentle 
breeze  arises,  and  a  tiny  cloud  appears  in  the  west,  A 
mighty  wave  of  hope  surges  up  in  the  heart  of  the  man. 
The  breeze  and  the  cloud  may  bring  rain,  and  if  they  should 
he  has  yet  a  chance  for  life.  He  kneels  down  in  the  powdery 
sand,  his  hands  uplifted  in  an  agony  of  supplication.  But 
alas  for  his  hopes  ;  the  fitful  breeze  dies  down,  the  cloud  of 
promise  fades  away.  He  shakes  his  clinched  fist  at  the 
brazen  sky,  and  curses  his  Maker  and  the  mother  that 
bore  him  in  his  torment.  He  feels  for  his  revolver  ;  it 
is  not  there.  Instead,  his  hands  encounter  a  wallet  which 
contains  a  huge  nugget  of  gold.  He  flings  it  from  him. 
Curses  on  the  gold,  the  glittering  dross  cannot  purchase  a 
drop  of  water  to  assuage  his  burning  thirst.  He  sits  down 
beside  the  dead  in  a  semi-stupor  ;  he  takes  the  cold  hand 


THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE    BEND.  lOI 

in  his,  and  tenderly  strokes  the  long  yellow  tresses.  Low 
mutterings  escape  his  parched  lips  ;  the  light  of  a  merci- 
ful madness  is  in  his  eyes. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  he  laughs  ;  "  won't  they  be  surprised 
to  see  us  ?  Scapegrace  Charlie  they  used  to  call  me  ;  but 
now  we  have  thousands,  they'll  welcome  us.  What  a  joke 
it  is  !  Hurrah  for  the  magic  power  of  gold,  gold,  gold  ! 
Who  says  it  is  not  ours  ?  It  is  ours  ;  it  is  mine  ;  the  claim 
is  mine,  and  we  shall  have  horses  and  carriages,  and  a  villa 
at  Toorak  ;  and  I  tell  you  we'll  live  a  right  royal  life."  And 
then  his  delirious  fancy  takes  another  turn.  He  is  in  Mel- 
bourne surrounded  by  a  jovial  crowd  of  boon  companions. 
"  Fill  up,  boys,  it's  my  shout  !  Here,  waiter,  bring  us 
champagne  ;  we'll  have  a  night  of  it,  for  I've  got  the 
dust!  See  here!  isn't  that  a  beauty?  That  nugget 
weighs  three  pounds  if  it's  an  ounce,  and  I  know  where 
there's  lots  of  them, — lots  of  them.  There's  thousands — 
millions  in  my  claim.  You've  only  to  scratch  the  soil  and 
nuggets  are  there  for  the  gathering.  And  there's  quartz 
too  in  the  ranges.  But  drink  up,  fellows,  your  glasses 
are  empty  ;  let  us  make  a  jolly  night  of  it."  And  the 
poor  wretch  seizes  an  imaginary  bottle  and  pours  out  a 
barmecidal  bumper,  and  goes  through  the  motion  of  drink- 
ing with  an  air  of  ghastly  hilarity.  '  Tis  but  the  beginning 
of  the  end.  These  wild  ravings  soon  die  away  into  discon- 
nected mutterings,  and  finally  cease.  The  sitting  pos- 
ture becomes  a  recumbent  one  ;  the  breath  comes  in  ster- 
torous gasps  ;  the  lack-lustre  eyes  gaze  upward  to  the  sky 
with  a  filmy  stare,  and  soon  Silence  and  Death  reign  over 
all. 

And  the  ghoulish  beetle  bids  his  comrades  to  the  feast  ere 
it  is  too  late.  For  the  rains  will  come  and  the  flesh  will 
wither  and  rot  away,  and  nothing  will  remain  but  a  heap  of 
whitened  bones  to  mark  another  episode  of  the  bush. 

Shortly  after  sunrise  on  the  morning  after  Queenie's 
flight  a  solitary  horseman  rode  into  Three-Mile  Bend. 
In  front  of  a  large  shanty,  above  the  door  of  which  he 
read  "  Queen  of  the  Ranges  Hotel,"  a  crowd  of  men  were 
standing.  He  addressed  himself  to  them.  "Can  any  of 
you  tell  me,"  he  said,  after  the  usual  salutations  had  been 

9* 


I02  THE   SIREN   OF   THREE-MILE   BEND. 

exchanged,  "if  there  is  a  woman  in  this  camp  of  the  name 
of  HiUington, — AHce  HiUington  ?" 

"  No,  there's  no  HiUington.  There's  a  Hihon,  wife  of 
Tom  Hilton  as  keeps  the  '  Miners'  Rest'  up  the  creek," 
said  a  man  who  appeared  to  be  a  leader  in  the  party,  and 
whom  the  others  called  Pete. 

The  new-comer's  face  fell.  "  Stop  a  bit.  What  an  ass 
I  am  !  Of  course  she  would  change  her  name,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  perhaps  this  will  help  you.     Here's  her  photograph." 

"  Why,  it's  Queenie  !"  said  the  man  called  Pete.  "  Is  she 
anythin'  to  you,  stranger?"  he  asked,  in  a  curious  voice. 

*'  She's  my  wife,"  said  the  new-comer,  laconically. 

"Sorry  for  you,  then,"  replied  the  man  called  Pete. 
"  She  bolted  last  night  with  a  young  feller  by  name  o'  Ingle- 
field,  an'  she  bein'  engaged  to  Dick  Hogan,  the  luckiest 
cuss  in  the  diggins',  too." 

"Then,  by  G — d,  I  passed  them  both  last  night  not 
twenty  miles  from  here.  It  was  dark  and  I  could  not  see 
her  features,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  furious  oath. 

"  Well,  that  7S  kinder  rilin',"  said  the  man  called  Pete, 
with  a  sympathetic  inflection. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  the  young  man  said,  hotly.  "  Lis- 
ten. When  I  knew  that  woman  first  she  was  an  actress  in 
New  Zealand.  I  was  a  lawyer  in  good  practice  in  Dune- 
din,  but  she  bewitched  me — curse  her  ! — with  her  innocent 
face  and  siren  beauty,  and  I  married  her.  She  nearly  ruined 
me  in  a  year  with  her  extravagances  ;  and  then,  when  I  lay 
sick  with  brain  fever,  she  ran  away  with  a  squatter  from 
Otago.  When  I  recovered  I  could  find  no  clue  to  her 
whereabouts,  though  I  afterwards  met  and  shot  the  squatter. 
But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  At  last,  however,  I 
traced  her  to  Sydney,  where  I  learned  she  had  kept  a  bar 
in  the  Metropole.  They  told  me  there  that  she  had  gone 
to  the  diggings  on  the  Roper,  and  I  followed  her  here  only 
to  miss  her." 

"An'  ye  can't  catch  them  now,"  said  the  man  called 
Pete.  "  Yer  hoss  is  dead  lame,  an'  they'll  catch  the 
Saturday  mornin'  coach,  an'  there  ain't  another  for  a 
fortnit."  Then  the  man  called  Pete  proceeded  to  tell 
Queenie' s  doings  in  the  camp  with  such  fanciful  exaggera- 
tions as  his  exuberant  imagination  suggested. 


THE   SIREN   OF  THREE-MILE   BEND,  IO3 

"It's  rather  hard  on  this  poor  devil  Hogan,  if  he  was  as 
'gone'  on  her  as  you  say,"  said  Hillington  when  the  miner 
called  Pete  had  finished.  "  But  he'll  thank  his  stars  things 
have  turned  out  as  they  have  when  he  learns  what  she  is. 
She  would  have  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  his  money  in 
no  time.  Where's  his  tent?  He's  probably  feeling  sore 
over  it,  and  I'll  go  and  ease  his  mind  a  bit." 

"It's  away  round  the  bend,  furthest  tent  on  the  flat,  a 
mile  from  the  edge  o'  the  camp,"  said  the  man  called  Pete. 

Having  received  these  directions,  Hillington  turned  his 
horse's  head  and  rode  slowly  down  the  creek.  When 
he  rounded  the  bend  he  saw  the  solitary  tent  on  the  flat. 
He  reached  it,  dismounted,  raised  the  flap,  and  looked  in. 
A  man  with  his  arms  outstretched  lay  prone  upon  the  floor, 
and  Hillington  saw  that  he  was  dead.  He  raised  the  corpse 
and  laid  it  on  the  narrow  pallet,  and  took  the  siren's  note 
from  its  stiflened  fingers.  "  Poor  old  chap,"  he  said,  com- 
passionately, as  he  looked  down  at  the  rugged  features,  on 
which  a  look  of  agony  still  lingered.  "  Poor  old  chap. 
Well,  it's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  one  any  good  ;  and  if 
she  killed  you,  your  death  has  brought  wealth  to  me." 
And  he  went  out  and  jumped  the  dead  man's  claim. 


THE  LOST  PINE  MINE. 

I  HAVE  just  received  a  letter  from  my  agent  offering  me 
a  safe  investment, — a  cool  thousand  if  I  buy  and  sell 
within  a  month, — twenty  shares  of  the  "  Lost  Pine  Mining 
Company, — Limited. ' ' 

Mines  are  risky  investments  at  best.  Millions  are  made 
in  them  every  year,  but  more  lost.  I  have  never  yet  been 
on  the  winning  side.     Before  writing  "  buy"  I  shall  reflect. 

What  says  the  Prospectus  ? 

"Heavy  silver-bearing  lode, — surface  exposure,  one 
hundred  feet  by  twelve, — vertical,  developing  side  pockets, 
— numerous  branches " 

Where  is  the  phenomenon? 

"Santa  Catalina  Mountains,  Pima  County,  Arizona. 
Agent  B.  N.,  Tucson." 

A  familiar  locality  !  I'll  bet  that  agent  a  hat  I  can  give 
him  points  on  the  "Lost  Pine  Mine."  Haven't  I  trailed 
that  country  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  in  the  days  gone  by  ? 

How?     Where?     When? 

In  the  days  of  my  first  service, — four  years  between  the 
Gila  and  the  northern  Mexican  border, — know  every  water- 
hole  and  every  patch  of  bunch-grass  between  Nogales  and 
the  Gila  Range.  It  was  in  the  beginning — in  the  days  of 
fresh  commencements — that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
that  mine.  It  is  the  same, — the  "Lost  Pine  Mine."  It 
never  had  a  name  until  the  day  we  met.  By  me  it  began 
to  wear  the  dignity  of  a  name.  By  it  I  began  to  get 
knowledge  and  understanding  of  mines.  We  are  old 
friends.  To-day  it  is  a  certainty  of  the  business  world. 
Surely  out  of  the  beginning  groweth  the  end.  That  mine 
has  prospered  from  the  start. 

And  this  is  the  history  of  the  beginning. 

Less  than  a  year  previous  I  had  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 

terribly  learned   Medical  Examining  Board  of  the  army, 

and   had   been  admitted  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  first 

lieutenant  and  assistant  surgeon.     When  I  placed  my  first 

104 


THE   LOST   PINE   MINE.  I05 

order  for  uniforms  with  Hatfield,  and  ran  up  a  bill  for  trim- 
mings with  Ridabock,  I  felt  more  valuable  than  a  ton  of 
twenty-four-carat  gold,  and  more  dignified  than  a  Hindoo 
god  with  a  diamond  eye.  I  was  a  star  of  the  first  magni- 
tude. If  an  acquaintance  failed  to  congratulate  me  upon 
these  hard-won  honors,  I  put  his  omission  down  to  malice, 
and  cut  him  off  my  list.  Out  of  twenty-two  aspirants  I 
had  been  the  only  one  accepted  by  the  board.  The  only 
one  who  possessed  the  requisite  learning  and  ability — I 
thought.  The  only  one  who  happened  to  know  just  what 
the  board  happened  to  ask — it  afterwards  appeared.  I 
thought  myself  an  unusually  gifted  scholar,  certain  to  add 
wonders  to  medical  science  in  the  army.  Every  one  else 
thought  I  was  an  ass.  But  that  was  in  the  days  of  bursting 
shells  and  pin-feathers. 

My  first  orders  lifted  me  away  from  scenes  of  intellectual 
triumphs  and  dropped  me  into  those  of  physical  failures, — • 
with  a  cavalry  battalion  in  the  cactus-beds  near  the  Mexican 
line,  somewhere  south  of  Tombstone.  The  drop  was  flat- 
tening. From  Central  Park,  a  silk  hat,  tan  kids,  and 
white  gaiters,  to  the  heart  of  an  alkali  desert,  the  back  of 
a  quartermaster's  mule,  and  the  nightly  shelter  of  a  saddle- 
blanket.  A  month  before  I  would  have  fainted  at  the  sight 
of  myself  "Trousers,  mounted,  made  heavy, — boots, 
heavy,  hand-sewed, — hat,  campaign,  drab,"  was  the  de- 
scription the  salient  points  of  my  field  uniform  bore  on  the 
quartermaster's  returns.  The  ensuing  grief  shook  the 
scales  from  my  eyes. 

It  was  necessary  for  me  to  learn  something  without  de- 
lay, and  in  Arizona  information  is  not  acquired  without 
poverty  and  earnest  purpose,  two  things  I  knew  not  of 
Urged  by  the  sustaining  spur  of  good  resolutions,  I  rose 
betimes,  and,  cinching  my  mule  by  the  light  of  the  morn- 
ing sun,  rode  forth  into  the  chaparral  to  slay  bush-rabbits 
with  my  six-shooter  and  flatter  the  vanity  of  the  ranchmen 
by  asking  questions.  They  taught  me  to  follow  a  moccasin 
trail,  throw  a  lasso,  and  make  the  diamond  hitch  over  the 
back  of  a  fractious  mule.  There  was  little  I  could  teach 
them,  for  the  sturdy  fellows  rarely  fell  ill  with  a  more  serious 
ailment  than  delirium  tremens. 

The  novelty  of  their  habits  and  manners,  and  a  desire  to 


Io6  THE   LOST   PINE   MINE. 

acquire  the  mysteries  of  plainscraft,  were  the  attractions 
which  drew  me  to  them  at  first,  but  as  their  better  acquaint- 
ance with  me  rendered  them  more  approachable,  I  discov- 
ered a  rugged  honesty  and  sincere  hospitahty,  which,  added 
to  their  reckless  bravado,  gave  their  ways  an  irresistible 
charm.  I  sought  their  friendship,  and  went  among  them 
whenever  it  was  possible  to  leave  camp. 

It  happened  that  during  the  annual  beef  "round-up"  I 
rode  over  and  passed  the  night  with  my  acquaintances. 
The  following  morning  there  occurred  in  the  camp  what 
the  New  York  Herald  would  head-line  as  "Murder — 
Deliberate  Assassination — The  Shooting  of  a  Mexican  by 
Cow-boys."  The  Tombstone  Blade  referred  incidentally 
to  the  affair  as  a  "Heated  altercation  between  Messrs.  Q. 
and  R.,  of  the  X-Bar  Cattle  Company,  and  a  Mexican 
named  Manrico,  which  resulted  fatally  to  the  latter." 

Being  law-abiding  citizens,  Messrs.  Q.  and  R.  delivered 
themselves  over  to  the  sheriff  for  trial.  I  was  named  as  a 
witness  for  the  defence,  and  served  with  summons  to  appear 
in  court  the  following  day  to  give  my  testimony. 

The  accused,  the  other  witnesses  for  the  defence, — there 
were  none  for  the  prosecution, — and  myself  rode  over  next 
morning,  reaching  the  low  adobe  building  which  served  as 
county  house  about  noon.  We  found  the  judge  seated 
behind  his  pine-slab  table  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  feet 
on  a  copy  of  Walker's  "American  Law,"  engaged  in  tar- 
get practice,  the  bull's-eye  being  a  retired  herring-box 
partially  filled  with  saw-dust  that  stood  in  one  corner  of  the 
room.  After  several  minutes  of  silent  rumination  he  would 
launch  the  results  with  unerring  certainty  at  the  herring- 
box.     The  aim  of  life  in  Arizona  is  to  hit  something. 

The  clerk  of  the  court  was  there,  also  the  attorney  for 
the  prosecution.  All  wore  six-shooters,  and  the  judge  had 
a  Winchester  rifle  standing  handy  for  the  punishment  of 
contempts  of  court.  When  a  few  of  the  jury  had  assem- 
bled we  took  seats.  The  judge  smote  the  herring-box 
again,  rapped  with  his  heel  on  the  table,  and  opened  the 
trial. 

"This  yer  court's  in  session.     Perceed,  Mr.  Attorney." 

The  prosecution  arose  and  stated  apologetically  that  he 
had  no  witnesses  to  examine,  as  the  complainant  had  named 


THE   LOST  PINE  MINE.  tOJ 

none,  being  deceased,  for  which  good  reason  all  of  the  evi- 
dence must  be  adduced  from  the  witnesses  on  the  part  of 
the  defence.  Mr.  Q.,  otherwise  known  as  Pecos  Bill,  con- 
ducted his  own  defence.  By  the  time  I  reached  the  stand 
the  absent  members  of  the  jury  had  arrived.  All  wore  one 
or  more  six-shooters. 

In  New  York  the  courts  do  not  sit  in  weapons.  Not 
being  informed  of  the  Arizona  custom,  I  had  left  all  of 
mine  at  the  camp.  It  was  evident  that  the  jury  regarded 
me  with  a  contempt  which  deepened  into  disgust  when  the 
evidence  I  gave  appeared  to  favor  the  prosecution.  I  had 
seen  the  Mexican  shot  in  the  back,  which  fact  would  lead 
to  the  necessary  conclusion  that  the  shooter  was  behind 
him.  I  made  that  statement,  and  there  was  a  chorus  of 
groans  from  the  jury. 

Pecos  Bill  rose  scornfully,  and  planting  his  right  foot 
firmly,  turned  his  body  so  as  to  place  his  left  back  where 
his  right  breast  had  been. 

"There,"  said  he,  "  don't  you  see  how  a  man  standing 
in  front  of  me  could  shoot  and  hit  me  in  the  back  ?'  * 

I  had  to  confess  that  the  feat  was  possible.  Pecos  Bill 
triumphantly  resumed  his  seat  and  turned  upon  me  a  look 
of  pity,  which  meant  that  I  was  ' '  a  deal  greener' '  than 
he  ever  supposed.  The  jury  remarked  facetiously  among 
themselves  that  nobody  but  a  freak  or  a  lunatic  ever  trav- 
elled without  a  "gun."  The  judge  suggested  that  possibly 
I  was  "  con  compis  mentis." 

It  was  evident  that  Pecos  Bill  had  friends  in  that  jury 
with  whom  I  was  unacquainted,  unto  whom  it  would  have  to 
be  made  pretty  clear  that  my  prejudicial  evidence  had  not 
been  given  with  malice  prepense,  before  it  would  be  safe 
to  meet  them  out  of  court.  I  wished  more  than  ever  I  had 
stayed  in  my  tent  and  read  novels  before  going  near  that 
cursed  "  round-up."  "  Mr.  Potter  of  Texas"  at  the  third 
reading  was  preferable  to  a  murder  trial  in  Arizona  without 
a  gun.  Shakespeare  wrote,  ' '  Thrice  is  he  armed  that  hath 
his  quarrel  just."     Shakespeare  had  never  been  in  Arizona. 

However,  in  due  course  of  law  the  case  was  concluded 
and  the  jury  charged.  They  lost  no  time  in  returning  a 
verdict  of  justifiable  homicide.  Pecos  Bill  celebrated  his 
release  from  custody  by  leading  the  crowd,  judge,  bar,  and 


I08  THE   LOST   PINE   MINE. 

jury,  over  to  the  licensed  liquor-house  presided  over  by 
one  Honest  Organ,  a  retire4  Methodist  minister,  noted  as 
being  the  greatest  single-handed  liar  in  the  Territory, — 
and  there  we  irrigated.  After  many  assurances  that  my 
mistakes  had  been  misinterpreted,  and  that  there  was  no  ill 
will,  I  was  permitted  to  mount  and  set  out  for  camp.  Even 
my  mule  trotted  out  briskly  with  the  joy  of  getting  away. 

Fancy,  oh,  gentle  rider  of  Central  Park,  with  your 
smoothly-galloping  chestnut  bay,  and  your  Whitman  sad- 
dle,— and  you,  fearless  rough  rider  of  the  Rosetree  Hunt, 
chasing  foxes  for  pleasure, — how  you  would  feel  mounted 
on  the  back  of  a  string-halt  quartermaster's  mule  in  a  desert 
of  chaparral,  with  thirty  miles  and  sundown,  and  Heaven 
only  knows  what  else,  between  you  and  supper  !  There 
are  moments  when  the  problems  of  equitation  present  no 
inspiring  features.  My  progress  that  afternoon  was  blighted 
by  such  moments.  Alone  in  Arizona  without  a  "gun," 
and  no  knowing  how  many  offended  citizens  abroad  in  the 
neighborhood  !     Better  be  in  mid-ocean  without  a  rudder. 

As  I  jogged  along,  watching  the  reddening  sun  drop 
lower  in  the  heavens,  the  silence  and  loneliness  became  op- 
pressive. Every  bush-rabbit  that  crossed  the  trail  gave  me 
a  start.  The  possibilities  of  the  desert  multiplied  in  my 
mind.  Any  wayfaring  desperado  I  met  could  lay  me  low 
and  drag  my  body  out  among  the  bushes,  where  the 
coyotes  would  prepare  my  bones  for  later  discovery,  and 
the  label,  in  some  dime  museum,  "  Traveller  overcome  with 
thirst  in  the  desert."  Geronimo's  entire  band  might  be 
sojourning  on  that  very  trail  between  me  and  the  camp. 
An  elegant  evening's  entertaiment  I  would  furnish  them  ! 

Towards  sunset  I  approached  a  deep  coulee  that  crossed 
the  trail.  Looking  ahead  into  the  gathering  dusk,  I  saw 
two  ponies  lariated  among  the  mesquite  bushes.  The  sad- 
dles appeared  to  be  of  the  Indian  pattern,  but  there  were 
no  riders  anywhere  in  sight.  My  first  thought  was  to  put 
about  and  retreat,  but  that  was  useless,  for  either  pony 
was  a  far  better  mount  than  my  mule.  It  would  be  wiser 
to  keep  straight  ahead  on  the  trail  and  trust  to  finding 
"friendlies," — White  Mountains  or  Pimas. 

As  I  approached  the  ponies  a  tall  white  man  sauntered 
out  of  the  bushes  and  planted  himself  squarely  in  my  path. 


THE   LOST   PINE   MINE.  IO9 

He  wore  the  wide-rimmed  hat,  dirty  blue  overalls,  and 
greasy  buckskin  shirt  of  a  miner,  and  most  prominently  a 
scraggy,  sandy  beard,  which,  after  radiating  in  all  directions 
from  his  head,  fell  half-way  to  his  waist.  He  concluded  the 
movement  by  thrusting  the  butt  of  his  Winchester  rifle  be- 
tween his  toes  and  holding  up  his  left  hand. 

"  Pause,  stranger,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Pausing  was  right  in  my  line.  I  wouldn't  have  refused 
his  request  for  half  the  Territory  in  fee-simple.  I  paused 
and  said,  "Good-evening." 

"Light,"  he  said.     I  lit. 

Without  altering  his  position  he  looked  me  over  from 
head  to  foot.  Then  turning  his  beady  eyes  full  into  mine, 
and  wrinkling  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  he  inquired, — 

"  You  air  that  medico  from  the  soldier  camp  ?  Thought 
likely  you  might  pass  this  way."  He  turned  and  beckoned 
me  to  follow  him  into  the  chaparral. 

I  answered  "Yes,"  and  walked  after  him,  feeling  like  a 
doomed  convict  on  his  way  to  the  cart.  Surely  the  hour 
had  come. 

We  entered  an  open  space  in  the  centre  of  which  was  the 
figure  of  a  man  reclining  upon  a  blanket. 

"Pard,"  said  my  captor,  addressing  the  figure,  "I  hev 
brought  you  the  medico."  Then  turning  to  me  he  added, 
"  Pard  an'  me  hed  a  dispute  about  who  owned  the  mine,  an' 
I  winged  pard." 

Joy  of  the  thought  !  My  professional  skill  was  required. 
The  other  fellow  was  to  be  the  victim,  not  me.  I  might 
leave  my  revolver  behind,  but  my  pocket  surgical  case, 
never. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  friend?"  I  asked,  bending 
over  him.  The  right  arm  was  bound  up  with  a  red  bandana 
handkerchief,  and  blood  was  oozing  out. 

"You  might  patch  up  that  hole  Tonto  bored  in  me,"  he 
answered,  feebly.  "  He  got  to  rarin'  aroun'  here  like  hell 
beatin'  tan-bark,  all  out  of  my  claimin'  the  mine.  When 
he  swore  he  would  never  let  me  own  that  mine  alive  it  riled 
me,  an'  I  war  goin'  to  make  medicine  weth  him,  but  Tonto 
air  double-geared — easy,  doc,  it  air  very  techy — double- 
geared  lightenin'  on  puUin'  trigger,  an'  he  winged  me  'fore 
I  could  git  my  gun  levil.     I  reckin  the  mine's  his." 


no  THE   LOST   PINE   MINE. 

' '  Which  will  teach  ye  hereafter  to  respect  the  wishes  of 
an  honest  pardner,"  observed  the  master  of  the  situation, 
sententiously. 

"  It  air  a  ticklish  thing  to  shoot  a  man's  ole  pardner," 
continued  the  afflicted,  as  I  went  on  with  my  surgery. 
"Me  an'  Tonto's  been  prospectin'  together  for  nigh  five 
year  wethout  onct  fallin'  out.  I  finds  a  mine  an'  digs  till  I 
thinks  it  ain't  no  use  diggin'  no  more,  an'  gives  up,  advisin' 
Tonto  to  do  the  same,  an'  pull  stakes  an'  move  further  up 
the  creek.  Tonto  won't  leave  it,  digs  deeper  an'  deeper 
an'  strikes  ore.  Thet's  why  he  thinks  he  orter  hev  that 
mine  o'  mine,  jest  as  if  he  finds  it  himself  It  'pears  to  me 
it  makes  no  difference  who  works  in  a  mine, — the  man  ez 
finds  it  owns  it.     How  do  it  'pear  to  you,  doc  ?" 

In  a  country  where  weapons  only  carry  weight  I  preferred 
to  defer  my  opinion.      "  That  depends,"  I  answered. 

"You  see,  doc,"  he  went  on,  holding  out  his  arm  while 
I  bound  it  up.  "I  finds  that  mine  twict.  When  we  first 
struck  her,  there  war  a  tall  pine-tree  standin'  up  on  the  edge 
of  the  gulch  right  over  the  lead,  an'  it  wa'n't  no  trouble  to 
find  the  mine  by  thet  pine-tree.  But  while  we  war  gone 
down  to  Tombstone  to  git  grub  the  wind  blew  thet  tree 
clean  out  by  the  roots,  an'  it  war  the  devil's  own  game  to 
find  the  place  ag'in.  Thet's  how  we  come  to  call  it  the  '  Lost 
Pine  Mine.'  I  dumb  up  out  of  the  gulch  an'  walked  along 
till  I  struck  thet  tree  lyin'  flat  on  the  mesa,  an'  thet's  how 
I  found  it  ag'in." 

The  bullet  from  Tonto's  revolver  had  passed  through  the 
fleshy  part  of  the  forearm  without  striking  any  bones.  I 
washed  the  wound  with  the  water  remaining  in  my  canteen, 
and  bound  it  up  in  my  own  handkerchief,  tying  the  old  one 
around  it.  Without  bandages  and  antiseptics  that  was  the 
best  that  could  be  done. 

"You  will  have  to  go  to  the  camp  with  me,"  I  said. 
"  I  can  do  no  more  for  you  here." 

The  stately  and  silent  Tonto  interposed.  ' '  Wait  till  we 
hev  done  weth  the  mine,  medico,"  he  observed,  in  measured 
tones.  "  I  am  no  pard  to  a  man  ez  doesn't  respect  my 
rights.  Thet  mine  wouldn't  never  hev  bin  found  ef  it 
hedn't  bin  fur  me,  an'  ef  pard  sez  thet  mine's  his,  he  lays 
here  till  he  rots  fur  all  the  good  Tonto  Bill  '11  be  lo  him 


THE   LOST   PINE   MINE.  Ill 

ag'in.  I  don't  shoot  no  man  an'  make  up  vveth  him  onless 
there's  prospect  of  his  comin'  to  reason.  Ef  pard  says  the 
mine's  mine,  I'm  willin'  to  stick  weth  him  till  the  crack  o' 
doom,  an'  we'll  work  it  together.  There  ain't  no  use  in  a 
man's  bein'  onreasonable.     What  say,  pard?" 

"  I  think  ye  hold  an  ace  full,  Tonto.  I  ain't  no  man  to 
dispute  the  rights  of  my  ole  pardner." 

"Why  don't  you  sell  out  your  interest?"  I  suggested. 
"  That  will  be  more  hke  business." 

"Sell  my  interest!  I  be  durned.  How  much' 11  you 
give,  Tonto  ?" 

"  Dollar  an'  a  drink  of  whiskey,"  chuckled  Tonto,  out  of 
his  beard. 

"  Whar's  the  whiskey  ?" 

"  Plenty  at  Honest  Organ's.     Here's  the  dollar." 

"  Goin',  goin',  gone  !  Sold  to  Tonto  Bill  fur  a  dollar  an' 
a  drink  of  whiskey, — all  my  interest  in  the  Lost  Pine  Mine, 
— me,  Ephraim  Carter,  known  to  most  people  ez  Prospect 
Pete, — so  help  me  Bob  !     Now  air  you  satisfied,  Tonto  ?" 

"  Ez  fur  ez  it  goes,"  answered  Tonto,  sitting  cross-legged, 
and  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  dirty  yellow  envelope  ;  "  but 
I  think  we'll  put  the  deal  in  writin'."  He  spread  the 
envelope  on  his  boot-top,  and  wrote  painfully  with  the  stub 
of  a  pencil, — 

' '  i  eferam  carter  this  day  sell  &  make  over  to  William 
Johnson  all  my  stock  &  profits  in  The  lost  pine  Mine,  fur 
a  dollar  &  a  drink  of  whiskey. ' ' 

"Make  yer  mark,  Pete,"  said  Tonto,  passing  over  the 
paper.  Ephraim  Carter  took  the  pencil  in  his  left  hand  and 
made  a  cross  under  the  writing. 

' '  What  do  it  say,  doc  ?' '  he  asked.     I  read  the  writing. 

"  Now,  medico,  ye  kin  spread  yer  fist  on  thet  document 
by  way  of  witnessin'  the  proceedin' . ' '  Tonto  gave  me  the 
envelope,  and  I  wrote  my  name.  Then  he  folded  it  care- 
fully and  placed  it  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  shirt.  Lean- 
ing over  he  grasped  Pete  by  the  left  hand. 

"Shake,  Pete  !  Now  ye  kin  bet  on  Tonto  Bill  fur  yer 
pard  fur  better  er  worse,  fire  an'  brimstone  an'  blood,  fur- 
ever.  Ye' 11  work  thet  mine  weth  me  half  an'  half,  even  up, 
an'  now  she's  mine  they  can't  be  no  more  disputes." 

Prospect  Pete  gurgled  softly,  bending  over  the  proffered 


112  THE   LOST    PINE   MINE. 

hand.  ' '  What  a  queer  way  to  treat  a  pard  !' '  he  murmured 
in  a  thin  voice.  "  I  said  it  was  dirt  cheap,  but  a  mine  ain't 
nothin'  but  dirt  nohow  till  it's  worked.  An'  now  ye  give 
me  half !  Bill,  ye  war  always  a  brother  to  me.  in  spite  of 
my  rantankerous  ways.  I'll  never  dispute  ye  ag'in. 
Never.     So  help  me  !" 

His  bearded  pard  helped  him  to  his  feet  and  assisted  him 
tenderly  to  the  back  of  the  pony.  "  Do  ye  feel  fit?"  he 
asked. 

"  Fit  enough,"  answered  Pete. 

The  purple  twilight  deepened  into  night  as  we  crept  slowly 
along  the  trail  leading  to  the  camp  in  the  foot-hills.  The 
wounded  arm  forbade  a  gait  faster  than  a  walk.  The  part- 
ners of  the  "  Lost  Pine  Mine"  were  absorbed  in  their  own 
meditations.  No  sound  except  the  far-off  wail  of  coyotes 
and  the  shuffle  of  the  animals'  hoofs  on  the  trail  broke  the 
stillness  until  the  sentinel  challenged  us  at  the  camp,  and 
there,  dismounting  my  patient  at  the  hospital  tent,  I  placed 
the  arm  on  the  road  to  recovery. 

Until  to-day,  since  the  twain  jogged  out  of  the  camp  side 
by  side  the  morning  following  our  strange  meeting,  I  have 
not  thought  of  the  "  Lost  Pine  Mine."  Now  it  all  comes 
back,  and  1  write  it  as  I  remember  it.  The  partners  never 
crossed  my  path  again.  I  witnessed  the  transfer  of  a  drink 
of  whiskey  which  I  can  never  take  oath  was  transferred.  If 
Honest  Organ  says  it  wasn't  I  shall  know  it  was. 

For  the  sake  of  the  "  pards"  and  those  early  begin- 
nings I  shall  write  to  my  agent, — 

"Buy." 


PRIVATE  JONES  OF  THE  EIGHTH ;  OR,  A  MILITARY 
MESALLIANCE. 


A  VERY  dingy  flag,  hanging  out  of  a  very  dingy  window, 
in  a  very  dingy  street,  of  a  certain  dingy  city,  indicated  to 
all  whom  it  might  concern  the  locale  of  a  United  States 
army  recruiting  rendezvous.  It  was  an  hour  before  the 
time  when  the  recruiting  officer  usually  made  his  appear- 
ance, and  a  very  elongated  corporal  in  a  decided  state  of 
undress  was  leaning  out  of  an  upper  window  gazing  up  and 
down  the  street  with  an  air  of  profound  contempt  for  all 
things  sublunary.  He  had  been  engaged  in  this  arduous 
occupation  perhaps  half  an  hour  when  a  tall,  fine-looking 
young  man  crossed  over  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
and  entered  the  office  below  without  pausing  to  read  cer- 
tain alluring  statements  pasted  on  a  board  at  the  door,  set- 
ting forth  the  advantages  of  a  soldier's  life  in  the  United 
States  service.  This  circumstance  having  fallen  within  the 
observation  of  the  elongated  corporal,  that  attenuated  indi- 
vidual withdrew  his  upper  extremities  into  the  room,  and 
proceeded  to  complete  his  toilet  with  the  expression  of  a 
mar  utterly  harassed  out  with  the  cares  and  responsibilities 
of  life.  Then  having  satisfied  himself  as  to  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, as  reflected  from  a  variety  of  stand-points  in  a 
cracked  mirror  at  the  end  of  the  room,  he  extracted  a  plug 
of  tobacco  and  a  pipe  from  the  pocket  of  a  coat  behind  the 
door,  and  slowly  descended  the  stairs,  whistling  that  cheer- 
ful and  popular  air  known  as  ' '  Johnny,  get  your  gun. ' '  In 
the  office  below  he  found  awaiting  him  the  tall  young  man, 
who  immediately  said,  ' '  Can  I  enlist  at  this  office  for  the 
United  States  army  ?'  *  The  elongated  corporal,  who  was  a 
man  of  great  deliberation,  evidently  did  not  think  that  this 
question  called  for  any  immediate  reply,  for  he  leisurely 
began  to  fill  his  pipe,  and  when  that  delicate  operation  had 
been  completed  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  he  condescended 
h  JO*  113 


114  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE    EIGHTH. 

to  drawl  laconically,  "  If  you  want  infantry,  you  can  ;  if  you 
want  cavalry,  you  can't."  Then,  apparently  satisfied  that 
no  further  information  could  possibly  be  required  of  him, 
he  spat  in  the  fire,  lit  his  pipe,  tilted  his  forage-cap  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  gazed  critically,  with  his  head  on  one 
side,  at  the  tall  young  man  through  dense  volumes  of  smoke. 
"It  is  immaterial  to  me  whether  I  go  to  cavalry  or  in- 
fantry," said  the  tall  young  man.  "  I  simply  wish  to  know 
whether  I  can  enlist  here,  and  at  what  time."  By  way  of 
reply  the  elongated  corporal  stepped  out  into  the  gloomy 
passage-way,  opened  a  door,  and  bawled  "Tom!"  at  the 
top  of  his  voice.  "  All  right !"  came  a  gruff  response  from 
somewhere  in  the  back  premises,  and  shortly  afterwards 
a  heavy  tread  announced  the  approach  of  "Tom,"  who 
turned  out  to  be  the  recruiting  sergeant.  The  sergeant 
was  a  short,  fat  man,  with  a  hoarse  voice  and  a  cadaverous 
aspect.  His  eye  had  the  appearance  of  the  visual  orb  of  a 
boiled  cod-fish  ;  his  cheeks  were  pendulous  and  flabby, 
and  his  face  wore  an  expression  of  habitual  exasperation. 
"Well?"  said  he,  interrogatively  and  irritably,  as  he  en- 
tered the  office.  The  elongated  corporal  did  not  vouchsafe 
an  oral  reply  ;  he  slowly  withdrew  the  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
expectorated  several  times  with  extraordinary  precision  into 
a  spittoon  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  jerked  his  left 
thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  tall  young 
man. 

"And  what  in  thunder  do  you  want?"  said  the  fat  ser- 
geant, in  a  most  irascible  tone,  when  he  beheld  the  applicant 
for  enlistment. 

"  I  wish  to  enlist  in  the  United  States  service,"  answered 
the  tall  young  man. 

"Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  come  at  the  proper 
time?"  said  the  sergeant.  "  Do  you  think  we  are  going  to 
get  breakfast  before  daylight  to  please  you  fellows  ?  No, 
not  by  a sight." 

The  tall  young  man  replied  to  the  effect  that,  as  it  was 
close  upon  ten  o'clock  when  he  came  in,  he  felt  justified  in 
assuming  that  the  business  of  the  day  had  begun. 

"You've  no  right  to  think  anything  about  it,"  growled 
the  sergeant,  with  a  terrific  scowl,  seating  himself  at  a  desk 
and  viciously  grabbing  a  paper  from  a  pigeon-hole  on  his 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  II5 

right.  ' '  Come  here  and  answer  these  questions. ' '  He 
unrolled  as  he  spoke  the  form  of  questions  which  every 
applicant  for  enlistment  is  required  to  answer  ;  but  before 
asking  any  of  these  he  winked  at  the  elongated  corporal,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Now  pay  attention  and  you'll  have  some 
fun,"  and  proceeded  to  frame  a  few  on  his  own  account, 
with  a  view  to  the  embarrassment  of  the  recruit  and  the  ex- 
hibition of  his  own  facetiousness. 

But  he  had  reckoned  without  his  host,  for  the  tali  young 
man  kept  remarkably  cool,  and  met  all  these  impertinent 
queries  with  some  caustic  and  ready  reply,  to  the  great  dis- 
comfiture of  the  sergeant  and  the  intense  delight  of  the 
elongated  corporal,  who  chuckled  gleefully  at  the  turn 
affairs  were  taking,  and  nearly  asphyxiated  himself  in  his 
efforts  to  suppress  his  hilarity  and  maintain  his  countenance 
in  a  state  of  befitting  solemnity.  The  sergeant  thereupon 
became  savage,  and  began  to  ask  the  questions  from  the 
recruiting-paper  with  the  air  of  a  bullying  attorney  brow- 
beating a  witness.  During  this  catechetical  examination  he 
several  times  returned  to  a  question  previously  asked,  as 
though  he  suspected  the  recruit  of  prevarication  and  wished 
to  convict  him  of  mendacity  by  entangling  him  in  some 
contradictory  statement.  He  took  a  particular  delight  in 
repeating  the  question,  ' '  Have  you  any  one  dependent  on 
you  for  support  ?' '  and  seemed  to  regard  a  negative  reply 
with  such  evident  incredulity  as  to  cause  the  recruit  to  think 
there  must  be  a  prevailing  impression  in  the  sergeant's 
mind  that  he  was  the  sole  support  and  stay  of  a  large  num- 
ber of  indigent  relatives,  and  had  come  into  the  army  for 
the  express  purpose  of  providing  for  their  maintenance  out 
of  his  pay  of  thirteen  dollars  a  month. 

Just  as  this  document  was  completed  a  gentleman  entered 
the  room,  whereupon  the  elongated  corporal,  who  had  been 
lounging  listlessly  against  the  mantel-piece,  called  "'Ten- 
skunf  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  glared  fixedly  at  an' imaginary 
spot  in  the  opposite  wall,  and  assumed  an  attitude  of  such 
extreme  rigidity  as  to  give  rise  to  a  doubt  whether  his 
spinal  column  would  ever  regain  its  flexibility.  From  these 
indications  the  recruit  concluded  that  he  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  recruiting  officer,  as  indeed  he  was.  The  savage 
sergeant's  insolence  of  manner  vanished  instanter,  and  gave 


Il6  PRIVATE  JONES  OF  THE  EIGHTH. 

place  to  an  obsequious  deference  as  he  brought  the  recruit 
before  the  officer,  who  asked  the  tall  young  man  a  few- 
pertinent  questions,  and  then  ordered  him  to  strip  for  his 
physical  examination.  This  examination  proved  the  tall 
young  man  to  be  a  fine  specimen  of  athletic  manhood. 
He  stood  fully  six  feet  high,  and  tipped  the  scale  at  one 
hundred  and  eighty-five  pounds.  His  figure  was  erect 
and  soldierly,  his  frame  well  knit  and  muscular,  and  his 
general  appearance  was  so  far  above  the  average  that  he 
passed  the  ordeal  without  the  slightest  difficulty.  Half  an 
hour  later  he  signed  his  enlistment  papers  and  his  name 
was  duly  entered  in  the  recruiting-book  as  "Private 
Thomas  Jones,  G.  S.  R.  U.  S.  Army,"  with  many  addi- 
tional particulars. 

This  business  having  been  concluded,  the  officer  retired 
to  his  private  room,  and  the  elongated  corporal,  interposing 
a  door  between  himself  and  the  fat  sergeant,  made  a  panto- 
mimic show  of  emptying  a  great  number  of  glasses,  jerked 
his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  street,  and  beckoned  the 
recruit  into  the  passage.  He  then  piloted  the  way  to  a 
neighboring  saloon  with  a  degree  of  alacrity  quite  surprising 
in  view  of  his  previous  deliberation  ;  such,  indeed,  was  his 
precipitance  that  he  had  called  for  "two  beers"  before  he 
discovered  "that  he  hadn't  got  no  change."  The  tall 
young  man  laughed  at  this  transparent  stratagem,  and  ten- 
dered a  five-dollar  bill  in  payment  for  the  beer,  at  the  same 
time  calling  for  a  further  supply,  for  the  elongated  corporal 
had  emptied  his  first  glass  at  a  gulp,  remarking,  with  a  re- 
dundancy of  negatives,  ' '  that  he  never  allowed  no  beer  to 
get  stale  nohow," — a  principle  he  again  proceeded  to  act 
upon  by  immediately  emptying  his  second.  Under  the 
cheerful  influence  of  the  beer  his  previous  taciturnity  gave 
place  to  a  convivial  mood,  induced  possibly  by  the  hope 
that  the  remains  of  the  five-dollar  bill  would  be  converted 
into  more  liquor.  In  that  belief  be  entered  upon  a  mono- 
logue eulogistic  of  the  tall  young  man,  the  disinterested- 
ness of  which  was  open  to  considerable  question,  as  it 
concluded  with  a  request  to  be  accommodated  with  the 
loan  of  fifty  cents,  which  was  granted  with  such  unexpected 
readiness  that  he  was  induced  to  repeat  the  operation  later 
on  to  the  extent  of  a  dollar.     The  tall  young  man  then 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  II7 

returned  to  the  office,  where  he  donned  a  blue  uniform  in 
place  of  his  "  mufti,"  and  was  told  by  the  fat  sergeant  to 
hold  himself  in  readiness  to  proceed,  with  three  other  re- 
cruits, to  the  receiving  depot,  for  which  destination  he  left 
at  seven  o'clock  that  evening  in  charge  of  the  elongated 
and,  by  that  time,  semi-inebriated  corporal,* 


II. 

It  was  muster-day  at  Fort  Buell,  head-quarters  of  the 
Eighth  United  States  Artillery.  First  call  had  sounded  all 
round  the  garrison,  and  groups  of  soldiers  were  gathered  in 
front  of  their  respective  quarters,  the  more  nervous  and 
diffident  among  them  going  through  the  manual  of  arms, 
making  the  most  of  this  last  opportunity  of  practice  to  in- 
sure precision  at  the  crucial  moment  in  the  approaching 
ordeal,  while  others,  more  confident  in  their  knowledge  of 
tactics,  lounged  carelessly  about,  interchanging  harmless 
and  frequently  pointless  witticisms  with  their  comrades  in 
the  other  batteries.  Midway  between  the  barracks  and 
"officers'  row"  stood  knots  of  officers  discussing  garrison 
or  regimental  matters  until  the  sounding  of  assembly,  and 
on  the  far  side  of  the  parade-ground  could  be  seen  the 
portly  form  of  the  commanding  officer,  Colonel  Colchicum, 
resplendent  in  gold  cord  and  flowing  scarlet  plume,  stalking 
to  and  fro  on  the  porch  in  front  of  his  quarters.  Colonel 
Colchicum  was  a  large  man  with  a  fierce  look  and  a  very 
imposing  manner.  He  prided  himself  on  being  a  martinet, 
but  in  spite  of  his  rigid  exaction  of  all  the  details  of  military 
discipline  he  was  not  disliked  by  the  men,  who,  while  ad- 
mitting his  severity,  nevertheless  recognized  his  justice  and 
impartiality.  Moreover,  there  was  a  prevailing  idea  among 
them  that  his  "bark  was  worse  than  his  bite,"  that  his 
acerbity  of  manner  was  not  the  natural  bent  of  his  disposi- 
tion, but  had  been  superinduced  by  a  long  course  of  femi- 
nine tyranny  at  home  ;    for  it  was  an  open  secret  in  the 

*  This  is  a  record  of  an  actual  enlistment. 


Il8  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

garrison  that  in  his  quarters  the  awe-inspiring  colonel, 
whose  tremendous  frown  sent  the  heart  into  the  boots  of 
the  luckless  soldier  who  hoped  to  pass  muster  with  a  "kit" 
out  of  keeping  with  the  standard  of  inspection  require- 
ments, was  mild  and  docile  as  a  lamb,  and  lived  in  a  state 
of  abject  subjection  to  a  stringent  code  of  petticoat  govern- 
ment as  formulated  by  Mrs.  Colchicum,  a  very  small  woman 
with  a  very  loud  voice.  The  men  were  wont  to  gauge, 
and  pretty  accurately,  too,  the  measure  of  the  colonel's 
domestic  infelicities  by  his  manner  at  inspections  and 
parades,  and  the  circumstance  of  having  to  march  past  at 
the  double  several  times  was  usually  accepted  as  an  indi- 
cation that  he  had  been  visited  with  the  infliction  of  a  more 
than  ordinarily  lengthy  curtain  lecture,  the  exercise  of  any 
undue  severity  being  simply  regarded  as  an  outlet  for  those 
feelings  of  exasperation  he  dared  not  give  vent  to  at  home. 
But  when  assembly  sounded  and  the  colonel  took  his  post, 
the  men  noted  with  inward  satisfaction  that  his  face  wore 
an  unusually  cheerful  expression,  which  was  significant  of  a 
cessation  of  hostilities  at  domestic  head-quarters,  and  a 
favorable  augury  for  an  easy  inspection.  But  if  the  colonel 
was  in  a  good  humor,  Captain  Hardtack,  commanding  Bat- 
tery A,  was  not ;  indeed,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  very  seldom 
was.  Captain  Hardtack  was  a  type  of  officer  now  happily 
rare  in  the  service.  He  was  harsh,  captious,  and  exacting 
with  his  men  in  line  of  duty,  and  even  in  their  leisure  time 
subjected  them  to  a  system  of  petty  surveillance  with  a  view 
to  making  their  personal  habits  a  ground  of  complaint  in 
case  they  should  afterwards  be  guilty  of  any  trivial  derelic- 
tion of  military  duty.  The  men  could  have  borne  without 
a  murmur  with  the  mere  exaction  of  disciplinary  require- 
ments, however  severe,  but  the  captain's  puerile  treatment 
exasperated  them  beyond  endurance,  with  the  result  that 
several  of  the  best  soldiers  among  them  deserted.  The 
battery  lost  its  esprit  de  corps,  and  became  a  mere  gather- 
ing of  pusillanimous  spirits  who  trembled  with  timid  embar- 
rassment in  the  captain's  hated  presence.  The  men  did 
their  duty  perfunctorily  and  without  the  slightest  show  of 
zeal,  happy  if  they  passed  through  the  day  without  having 
incurred  some  scathing  reprimand  or  suffered  the  curtail- 
ment of  some  little  privilege.     Matters  were  in  this  condi- 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  IIQ 

tion  when  Private  Jones  was  assigned  to  the  battery.  In 
our  journey  through  Hfe  we  not  infrequently  meet  with  in- 
dividuals for  whom,  without  exactly  knowing  why,  we  con- 
ceive a  strong  feeling  of  aversion.  When  Private  Jones, 
on  the  morning  of  his  arrival  at  Fort  Buell,  reported  at  the 
orderly-room,  he  at  first  sight  experienced  an  instinctive 
dislike  for  Captain  Hardtack.  This  dislike  was  mutual  (for 
even  officers  condescend  at  times  to  entertain  personal  an- 
tipathies to  enlisted  men),  and  as  the  days  went  by  Captain 
Hardtack  felt  that  he  hated  the  keen-eyed,  handsome  pri- 
vate soldier  whose  calm  self-possession  nothing  seemed  to 
disturb,  although  he  might  have  been  at  a  loss  to  find  a 
reason  for  his  antipathetic  sentiments  had  he  been  called 
upon  to  give  one.  On  this  particular  muster  he  was  more 
than  usually  captious,  and  in  his  preliminary  inspection 
before  the  march  past  in  review  found  fault  with  his  men, 
collectively  and  individually,  emptying  out  the  vials  of  his 
wrath  upon  the  head  of  Private  Jones,  from  the  sleeve  of 
whose  dress-coat  a  button  was  missing.  And  the  captain 
made  full  use  of  this  opportunity  for  the  display  of  his  vitu- 
perative powers.  The  soldier  that  he  disliked  had  never 
before  given  him  the  slightest  occasion  for  a  reprimand,  for 
during  the  year  Private  Jones  had  been  in  the  battery  he 
had  proved  himself  to  be  a  soldier  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  He  was  clean,  precise,  and  intelligent,  cardinal 
virtues  in  military  life,  and  turned  out  at  guard-mount 
with  such  spotless  attire  and  highly-polished  accoutrements 
that  the  adjutant,  who  had  a  nice  appreciation  of  soldierly 
qualities,  invariably  selected  him  for  the  coveted  position 
of  orderly.  With  his  comrades  Private  Jones  was  a  general 
favorite.  They  were  not  long  in  discovering  that  he  was  a 
man  of  superior  talent  and  education,  and  his  opinion  and 
assistance  were  frequently  sought  in  the  settlement  of  many 
little  company  arguments.  He  was  generous  almost  to  a 
fault  with  his  money,  of  which  he  apparently  obtained  a 
regular  supply  from  some  mysterious  source  irrespective  of 
his  pay,  a  circumstance  which  gave  a  show  of  color  to  the 
rumor  that  he  was  the  scapegrace  son  of  some  wealthy  man, 
to  say  nothing  of  various  other  speculations  as  to  his  social 
status  prior  to  his  enlistment.  But  the  curious  were  obliged 
to  content  themselves  with  mere  surmise,  for  Private  Jones 


I20  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

was  remarkably  reticent  in  regard  to  his  previous  history, 
and  pohtely,  but  with  unmistakable  firmness,  repelled  all  at- 
tempts to  draw  him  into  conversation  on  the  subject.  At 
any  rate,  the  fact  remained  that  Private  Jones  always  had 
money,  and,  from  a  soldier's  point  of  view,  plenty  of  it,  and 
he  spent  it  with  a  freedom  remarkable  even  for  a  soldier, 
and  with  a  recklessness  that  would  almost  have  satisfied  a 
sailor.  It  was  a  matter  of  considerable  surprise  to  the  other 
officers  in  the  garrison,  who  had  long  since  recognized  in 
Private  Jones  a  remarkably  fine-looking  and  intelligent 
soldier,  that  he  had  not  been  promoted  to  a  corporalship. 
The  reason  advanced  by  Captain  Hardtack  for  ignoring 
qualifications  which  were  patent  to  everybody  was  that 
Private  Jones  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  heavy  drinker. 
In  order  that  it  may  not  be  inferred  from  this  that  Captain 
Hardtack  was  an  advocate  of  the  principle  of  total  absti- 
nence, it  may  be  stated  that  the  frequent  delivery  of  spirit- 
cases  at  his  quarters  afforded  some  ground  for  believing 
that  he  held  opinions  to  the  contrary  of  a  very  unequivocal 
character.  But  if  Private  Jones  drank  a  great  deal,  there 
was  evidently  a  method  in  his  drinking,  for  he  was  never 
known  to  neglect  his  duty  on  that  account ;  nor  did  he 
seem  to  suffer  from  those  macrocephalous  sensations  which 
usually  follow  an  inordinate  indulgence  in  alcoholic  liquors, 
nor  had  he  ever  appeared  upon  the  battery  sick  report  as  a 
sufferer  from  "acute  alcoholism,"  a  frequent  and,  it  may 
be  added,  very  accurate  diagnosis  of  a  great  number  of 
cases  in  the  monthly  return  of  patients  at  the  post  hospital ; 
for  Major  Probang,  the  post  surgeon,  had  been  too  long  in 
the  service  to  be  deceived  by  fictitious  ailments,  as  many  an 
over-night  canteen-reveller  who  tried  to  "  beat  the  sick  re- 
port" with  a  supposititious  "  cold  in  the  head"  found  to 
his  cost.  But  at  last  there  arose  a  vacancy  when  Private 
Jones's  merits  could  not  well  be  ignored,  however,  for  there 
was  absolutely  no  other  man  in  the  battery  capable  of  filling 
the  position.  Private  Jones  was  accordingly  sent  for  to  the 
orderly-room,  when  Captain  Hardtack,  with  an  air  of  great 
condescension,  said  to  him,  "Jones,  there  is  a  corporalship 
vacant  in  the  battery,  and  I  have  decided  to  make  you  a 
non-commissioned  officer." 

"With  your  permission,   sir,"  said   Private  Jones,    "I 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH,  121 

respectfully  wish  to  say  that  I  have  no  desire  for  promotion 
and  would  prefer  to  remain  a  private. ' ' 

"Your  preferences  will  not  be  consulted,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, angrily.      "  I  intend  to  promote  you." 

' '  In  that  event,  sir,  I  have  only  to  ask  you  to  consider 
my  resignation  of  the  position,"  replied  Private  Jones,  re- 
spectfully. 

' '  Not  unless  you  can  give  me  good  and  sufficient  reasons, ' ' 
said  the  captain. 

' '  I  have  my  reasons,  sir, ' '  said  Private  Jones. 

*'  State  them,"  commanded  the  captain. 

"In  the  first  place,  sir,"  said  Private  Jones,  "the  dif- 
ference between  the  pay  of  a  private  and  that  of  a  non- 
commissioned officer  is  so  small  as  to  be  beneath  considera- 
tion. Secondly,  as  no  examination  is  required  to  determine 
a  soldier's  fitness  for  promotion,  that  promotion  cannot  be 
regarded  as  a  recognition  of  qualifications  superior  to  those 
of  the  ordinary  rank  and  file.  It  would  seem  rather  to 
depend  upon  the  mere  negative  recommendation  of  having 
done  nothing  '  to  the  prejudice  of  good  order  and  military 
discipline'  during  the  term  of  service  as  a  private,  or  upon 
the  whim  or  caprice  of  the  battery  commander.  Thirdly, 
the  non-commissioned  officer  has  no  especial  privileges. 
He  messes  and  sleeps  with  the  men  ;  consequently  his  in- 
terests and  associations  are,  in  a  great  measure,  identical 
with  theirs.  Under  these  circumstances  it  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  much  dignity  or  authority  can  attach  to  the 
office.  Fourthly,  it  not  infrequently  happens  that  a  raw 
recruit,  with  perhaps  no  more  than  three  months'  service, 
is  given  some  extra-duty  position  in  one  of  the  staff"  depart- 
ments, and  is  thereby  enabled  to  draw  more  pay  than  the 
regimental  sergeant-major,  which  seems  to  me  such  an 
extraordinary ' ' 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  captain,  with  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  at  an  assumption  of  supreme  indifference  ;  "I  did 
not  ask  you  for  any  comments  upon  the  Army  Regula- 
tions. Go  to  your  quarters  ;  you  will  not  be  promoted." 
And  thus  it  fell  out  that  Private  Jones  remained  Private 
Jones  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

F  II 


122  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

III. 

Now  it  came  to  pass  about  this  time  that  Captain  Hard- 
tack decided  to  take  unto  himself  a  wife,  and 

"  Indulge  in  the  felicity 
Of  unbounded  domesticity." 

There  was  quite  a  bevy  of  marriageable  young  ladies  in  the 
post,  each  of  whom  possessed  more  or  less  pretensions  to 
good  looks.  They  greatly  exceeded  in  number  the  eligible 
ti\2\q  partis,  and  as  the  garrison  was  comparatively  isolated, 
and  the  circle  of  acquaintance  necessarily  limited,  any  one 
of  them  would  doubtless  have  been  glad  to  secure  Captain 
Hardtack  as  a  partner  for  life.  The  gallant  captain  knew 
this,  but  his  mind  was  in  a  woful  state  of  indecision  caused 
by  such  an  amplitude  of  choice.  After  a  long  period  of 
deliberation,  wherein  he  duly  weighed  the  pros  and  cons  of 
a  union  with  each  individual  young  lady,  he  came  at  last  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  could  not  do  better  than  confer  his 
hand  and  heart  upon  the  colonel's  daughter,  an  acidulated 
disappointed  maiden  of  uncertain  age,  a  veritable  Tabitha 
Bramble  in  disposition, 

"  Whose  homely  face  and  bad  complexion" 
had  long  since 

"  Caused  all  hopes  to  disappear 
Of  ever  winning  man's  affection." 

She  had,  however,  one  attractive  recommendation  in  the 
possession  of  a  considerable  fortune  in  her  own  right,  which, 
in  Captain  Hardtack's  eyes,  made  ample  amends  for  her 
numerous  personal  deficiencies,  and  he  had  almost  made 
up  his  mind  to  declare  his  intentions,  confident  in  the 
assurance  of  a  ready  acceptance  (for  Miss  Colchicum,  like 
Barkis,  was  "willin',"  and  had  been  for  years),  when  an 
event  occurred  which  caused  a  complete  alteration  in  his 
matrimonial  plans.  This  event  was  the  arrival  at  the  post 
of  Miss  Quilkey,  the  daughter  of  Captain  Quilkey,  the 
regimental  quartermaster,  a  bright  vivacious  girl  of  nine- 
teen summers,  who  had  just  returned  to  the  post  from  a 
lengthy  sojourn  in  the  East,  whither  she  had  been  to  com- 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF  THE   EIGHTH.  1 23 

plete  her  education.  Miss  Quilkey  was  a  magnificent  type 
of  budding  American  womanhood.  She  was  a  brunette, 
tall,  lithe,  and  graceful,  and  her  lustrous  dark  eyes,  full  of 
fire  and  life,  took  by  storm  the  heart  of  every  unmarried 
officer  in  the  post.  Among  others  who  succumbed  to  her 
fascinations  were  Captain  Hardtack  and  his  junior  sub- 
altern, Lieutenant  Symper,  who  both  became  aspirants  for 
her  hand.  Now,  Captain  Hardtack  in  his  inmost  heart 
had  always  envied  and  hated  Lieutenant  Symper  because 
the  latter  had  plenty  of  money,  and  Lieutenant  Symper 
experienced  a  profound  contempt  for  his  superior  officer 
because  that  gentleman  had  none.  Outwardly,  however, 
they  made  a  great  show  of  cordiality  until  they  became 
rivals  in  love,  when  a  spirit  of  such  deadly  enmity  arose 
between  them  that  they  disdained  all  intercourse  save  "in 
line  of  duty."  Lieutenant  Symper  was  the  son  of  a  de- 
funct post-trader,  who  had  amassed  a  competency  by  the 
sale  of  vitriolic  whiskey  and  watery  beer  to  the  soldiers  of 
some  Western  post.  The  old  trader,  shrewdly  perceiving 
that  his  son's  services  in  civil  life  would  never  command  a 
remuneration  equal  to  the  pay  and  emoluments  this  liberal 
government  bestows  upon  its  gallant  defenders,  had  decided 
to  place  him  in  the  army,  and  after  a  great  deal  of  wire- 
pulling and  the  exercise  of  a  vast  amount  of  adroit  political 
finesse,  a  judicious  employment  of  which  will  accomplish 
wonders  in  this  free  and  enlightened  republic,  he  succeeded 
in  getting  his  son  appointed  to  West  Point,  where  that 
obtuse  youth,  to  every  one's  intense  surprise,  eventually 
graduated.  Shortly  after  this  event  the  old  man  consider- 
ately died,  leaving  behind  him  the  snug  sum  of  one  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars,  of  which  the  ci-deva7it  cadet,  now 
Lieutenant  Symper,  forthwith  took  possession,  and  at  once 
assumed  airs  of  commensurate  importance.  Lieutenant 
Symper  was  a  tall,  slim  young  man  with  an  incipient  mous- 
tache, a  vacuous  smile,  one  idea,  and  an  eyeglass.  He 
seemed  to  be  continually  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
his  own  personal  attractions.  As  the  soldiers  less  euphe- 
mistically expressed  themselves,  he  was  ' '  stuck  on  him- 
self ' '  He  had  a  fixed  idea  that  he  was  created  solely  for 
the  purpose  of  posing  for  the  admiration  of  the  feminine 
portion  of  humanity,   and  evidently  considered  himself  a 


124  PRIVATE  JONES  OF  THE  EIGHTH. 

lady-killer,  par  excellence,  and  a  beau  of  the  first  water. 
He  became  deeply  smitten  with  the  charms  of  the  beautiful 
Miss  Quilkey,  and  that  he  had  only  to  declare  his  passion 
to  find  it  fully  reciprocated  he  had  not  the  slightest  shadow 
of  a  doubt. 

Captain  Quilkey,  the  quartermaster,  was  an  elderly  man 
with  a  partiality  for  whiskey  and  whist,  expensive  tastes 
both,  for  he  drank  a  great  deal  of  the  former  and  played 
most  atrociously  at  the  latter.  As  he  had  no  means  out- 
side of  his  pay,  and  as  Mrs.  Quilkey  was  addicted  to  a 
gorgeous  extravagance  in  matters  relating  to  her  personal 
adornment,  he  often  experienced  considerable  difficulty  in 
making  "both  ends  meet."  He  therefore  viewed  the  at- 
tentions of  Lieutenant  Symper  to  his  daughter  with  an 
approving  eye,  though  he  had  a  very  depreciative  opinion 
of  that  gentleman's  mental  capacity.  But  one  cannot  af- 
ford to  be  hypercritical  with  a  prospective  son-in-law  who 
has  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  On  the  other  hand, 
Mrs.  Quilkey  was  inclined  to  favor  the  suit  of  Captain 
Hardtack,  who  was  the  senior  captain  in  the  service,  while 
Lieutenant  Symper  was  only  an  additional  second  lieu- 
tenant. If  her  daughter  married  the  captain  she  might 
live  to  see  her  a  colonel's  wife,  which  in  the  other  case,  at 
the  present  slow  rate  of  promotion,  she  could  not  hope  to 
do.  And  this  social  advantage  on  the  one  side  more  than 
outweighed,  in  her  mind,  the  monetary  consideration  on 
the  other.  But  Miss  Quilkey,  although  she  listened  duti- 
fully to  her  father  when  he  enlarged  upon  the  worldly  bene- 
fits to  be  gained  by  a  marriage  with  Lieutenant  Symper, 
and  to  her  mother  as  to  the  social  advantages  of  a  union 
with  Captain  Hardtack,  had  certain  romantic  notions  of  her 
own  in  regard  to  matrimony.  She  was,  moreover,  a  very 
self-willed  young  lady,  and  certainly  had  no  intention  of 
being  either  coerced  by  her  father  or  cajoled  by  her  mother 
into  a  viariage  de  convenarice  with  a  man  she  did  not  love. 
She  therefore  rejoiced  in  secret  at  the  divided  counsels  in 
the  domestic  camp,  and  hoped  by  a  little  judicious  manoeu- 
vring to  prevent  a  union  of  the  parental  forces  in  favor  of 
either  the  captain  or  the  lieutenant.  In  her  ability  to  do 
this  she  felt  that  the  continuation  of  her  single  blessedness 
lay.     She  certainly  gave  neither  of  her  admirers  the  slightest 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  1 25 

encouragement.  She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  marriage 
with  Captain  Hardtack,  whose 

"  Narrow,  foxy  face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent  eye" 

inspired  her  with  a  feeling  of  deep  distrust,  and  when  in 
his  company  she  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  her  senti- 
ments of  aversion.  But  this  only  inflamed  the  captain's 
passion  and  made  him  more  determined  to  win  her.  If  she 
hated  Captain  Hardtack  she  simply  despised  Lieutenant 
Symper,  and  returned  his  vapid  compliments  with  such 
merciless  and  scathing  sarcasm  as  would  have  convinced  him 
of  the  hopelessness  of  his  suit  had  he  not  been  blinded  by 
overweening  self-conceit.  Matters  went  on  in  this  way  for 
some  time  ;  the  captain  hesitating  to  make  his  proposal 
until  he  felt  more  sure  of  his  ground.  In  the  mean  time  he  as- 
sumed an  air  of  mournful  resignation  as  best  befitting  the 
condition  of  a  love-lorn  swain,  and  improved  "the  shining 
hour"  by  assiduously  cultivating  the  good  graces  of  Mrs. 
Quilkey,  upon  whose  co-operation  in  his  matrimonial 
aspirations  he  plainly  perceived  he  could  count.  Lieu- 
tenant Symper,  however,  had  no  such  misgivings  as  to  the 
success  of  his  suit,  and  several  times  when  alone  with  the 
fair  object  of  his  regard  had  been  on  the  point  of  launch- 
ing into  an  ardent  declaration  of  his  pa-ssion.  But  that 
unimpressionable  young  lady,  whenever  the  conversation 
took  a  tender  turn,  changed  it  at  the  supreme  moment  into 
channels  so  severely  commonplace,  and  with  an  air  of  such 
provoking  nonchalance,  that  the  lady-killing  lieutenant,  in 
spite  of  his  assurance,  was  fain  to  defer  his  amorous  avowal 
to  some  future  occasion. 


IV. 


Colonel  Colchicum,  the  commanding  officer  of  Fort 
Buell,  was  a  thorough  soldier,  with  a  high  sense  of  the 
honorable  character  of  the  military  calling,  not  only  from 
his  stand-point  as  an  officer,  but  as  affecting  the  humblest 

u* 


126  PRIVATE  JONES  OF  THE  EIGHTH. 

private  in  the  regiment.  He  was  fully  convinced  of  the 
pernicious  influence  of  the  general  fatigue  system  upon  the 
service,  and  maintained  that,  beyond  the  necessary  police 
of  quarters,  nothing  should  be  required  of  a  soldier  but 
duties  of  an  essentially  military  character.  But  a  strict  per- 
formance of  these  he  exacted  to  the  uttermost,  aiming  to 
make  his  command  a  model  of  perfection  to  the  minutest 
detail,  not  only  in  the  school  of  the  soldier,  but  also  in  the 
general  bearing  and  appearance  of  the  men.  To  be  seen 
about  the  garrison  in  uncleanly  or  slovenly  attire,  or  to  be 
lacking  in  the  slightest  degree  in  military  carriage  or  bear- 
ing, was  in  his  eye  the  gravest  offence  of  which  a  soldier 
could  be  guilty.  The  colonel  was  wont  to  argue  that  the 
system  of  general  fatigue  was  accountable  for  a  large  per- 
centage of  desertions.  "Hang  it,  sir,"  he  would  say,  in 
his  blunt  way,  to  the  lieutenant-colonel,  who  entertained 
diametrically  opposite  views,  "  I  do  not  want  visitors  to  this 
post  to  go  away  with  the  idea  that  the  uniform  of  the 
United  States  soldier  is  made  of  brown  canvas,  and  that 
the  weapon  with  which  he  is  most  familiar  is  a  long-handled 
shovel.  This  is  an  artillery  regiment,  not  a  corps  of  sappers 
and  miners,  hence  my  men  have  no  use  for  the  pick."  The 
men  were  thoroughly  in  accord  with  the  colonel's  ideas, 
and  severe  as  was  his  regime,  they  infinitely  preferred  it 
to  a  life  of  ditch-digging  and  road-making,  which  they 
thought,  and  not  without  reason,  was  the  work  of  a  pioneer 
corps  and  not  of  regiments  of  the  line.  As  a  result  of  this 
wholesome  discipline  each  company  in  the  post  in  its  desire 
to  attain  the  colonel's  standard  of  military  perfection  be- 
came filled  with  a  spirit  of  generous  emulation,  and  the 
regiment  earned  the  enviable  reputation  of  being  the 
smartest  in  the  service.  The  military  routine  at  Fort  Buell 
began  at  reveille.  At  eight  o'clock  the  regiment  turned  out 
for  dress  parade,  and  immediately  after  this  ceremony  the 
adjutant  mounted  the  guard.  Then,  after  a  short  interval, 
came  drill  for  an  hour  in  the  school  of  the  battalion,  or  in 
mechanical  manoeuvres  with  the  heavy  guns  in  the  case- 
mates, and  this  in  the  winter  months  concluded  the  military 
duties  of  the  day. 

It  thus  happened  that  Private  Jones  had  ample  leisure  at 
his  disposal,  and  he  was  in  the  habit  after  morning  drill  of 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  127 

taking  long  walks  in  the  fine  country  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  when  the  weather  grew  cold  enough  he  spent  a  good 
deal  of  time  skating  on  a  small  lake  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
post.  In  the  clear  winter  afternoons  parties  of  officers, 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  and  scores  of  soldiers  might 
be  seen  hurrying  through  the  keen  crisp  air  to  this  lake  to 
indulge  in  the  same  invigorating  recreation.  On  a  certain 
afternoon  several  ladies  of  the  post  (among  whom  was  Miss 
Ouilkey),  accompanied  by  Captain  Hardtack,  Lieutenant 
Symper,  and  other  officers  of  the  garrison,  went  down  to 
the  lake  for  a  spin  upon  the  ice.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  both 
the  captain  and  the  lieutenant  regarded  this  excursion  with 
considerable  misgiving,  for  neither  could  skate  ;  but  both 
made  a  point  of  going,  as  each  was  afraid  the  other  might 
steal  a  march  on  him  on  the  way  down  if  he  remained  away. 
Miss  Quilkey  was  a  superb  performer  on  the  ice,  and  as 
soon  as  her  skates  had  been  adjusted  she  glided  swiftly  out 
on  to  the  glassy  surface  in  a  succession  of  intricate  and 
graceful  curves,  disdaining  many  a  willing  proffer  of  escort. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  rivals,  with  gloomy  forebodings  of 
disaster,  timidly  ventured  on  to  the  icy  expanse  to  en- 
counter all  the  hideous  experiences  of  a  first  time  on  skates. 
The  lake  was  soon  covered  with  a  host  of  flying  skaters, 
whose  enjoyment  of  the  sport  was  so  keen  that  the  initial 
struggles  of  Captain  Hardtack  and  his  subaltern  were 
almost  unnoticed. 

The  afternoon  wore  on  apace,  and  the  officers  and  their 
ladies  were  preparing  to  leave  the  pond,  when  the  attention 
of  every  one  was  attracted  by  screams  mingled  with  the 
cracking  of  ice,  and  not  far  away  in  the  gathering  gloom  a 
lady  was  seen  struggling  in  the  water.  It  seems  that  Miss 
Quilkey,  in  skating  back  to  join  her  friends  from  a  distant 
portion  of  the  lake,  unwisely  tried  to  make  a  short-cut 
across  a  treacherous-looking  piece  of  ice  beneath  an  over- 
hanging clump  of  trees.  Lieutenant  Symper  was  nearest 
to  the  scene  of  the  accident,  and  for  some  time  past  had 
been  in  that  vicinity  making  strenuous  but  unsuccessful  at- 
tempts to  maintain  his  equilibrium  with  the  aid  of  a  chair. 
Captain  Hardtack's  efforts  at  locomotion  were  as  yet  con- 
fined to  an  occasional  series  of  spasmodic  scuffles,  which 
invariably  terminated  in  his  taking  a  seat  upon  the  ice  with 


128  PRIVATE  JONES  OF  THE  EIGHTH. 

unexpected  suddenness.  Assistance,  therefore,  from  either 
of  these  gentlemen  was  out  of  the  question,  and  it  might 
have  fared  ill  with  Miss  Quilkey  had  her  cries  not  reached 
the  ears  of  Private  Jones,  who  was  skating  at  no  great  dis- 
tance away.  He  hurried  to  the  spot,  skating  boldly  to 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  hole.  He  then  lay  down  in  order 
to  distribute  his  weight  over  the  greatest  possible  area,  and 
crawled  cautiously  towards  the  broken  edge  until  he 
grasped  Miss  Quilkey's  hand.  He  had  almost  succeeded 
in  pulling  her  out  of  the  water  when  their  united  weight 
proved  too  great  a  strain  ;  the  ice  broke  again  and  pre- 
cipitated both  into  the  water. 

But  by  this  time  assistance  was  rapidly  converging  from 
all  sides,  and  Private  Jones  knew  that  if  he  could  hold  out 
for  a  few  minutes  longer  and  support  Miss  Quilkey,  who 
was  now  insensible,  their  safety  was  assured.  Fortunately, 
a  rope  had  been  brought  to  the  lake  by  a  prudent  member 
of  the  party  in  view  of  possible  emergencies,  and  a  noose 
having  been  made  in  this,  the  bight  was  flung  to  Private 
Jones,  who  had  just  sufficient  strength  left  to  pass  it  round 
Miss  Quilkey  and  over  his  own  shoulders  before  the  numb- 
ing sensation  of  cold  robbed  him  of  consciousness.  When 
he  regained  his  senses  it  was  to  find  himself  in  the  post 
hospital  and  the  hero  of  the  garrison.  After  she  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  her  immersion,  Miss  Quilkey  sent  for 
Private  Jones  to  personally  express  her  gratitude  for  his 
timely  aid. 

' '  I  am  so  deeply  indebted  to  you,  Jones  ;  I  feel  I  owe 
my  life  to  you,"  she  said,  with  evident  feeling,  grasping  his 
hand  warmly. 

"  Do  not  mention  it.  Miss  Quilkey,"  said  Private  Jones, 
bowing.  ' '  I  did  nothing  but  my  duty.  I  am  only  too 
happy  to  have  been  of  service." 

If  Miss  Quilkey  was  surprised  at  the  courteous  tone  of 
the  speaker,  a  tone  that  indicated  a  degree  of  culture  and 
breeding  far  above  his  station,  she  was  still  more  surprised 
to  find  that  her  rescuer  was  a  remarkably  good-looking 
young  fellow  with  the  unmistakable  air  of  a  gentleman, 
and  that  night  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber,  as  she  sat 
by  the  fire  before  retiring  to  rest,  in  a  dainty  lace-edged 
robe  de  chambre,  she  caught  herself  more  than  once  think- 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  1 29 

Ing  of  the  handsome  private  who  had  saved  her  Hfe  at  the 
risk  of  his  own.  "  Pshaw  !"  said  she,  as  she  crept  into  her 
cozy  bed  ;  ' '  how  absurd  of  me  to  be  thinking  of  a  soldier  in 
this  way  !"  But  despite  the  absurdity  he  remained  in  her 
thoughts  until  she  fell  asleep. 

The  next  day  at  guard-mount  Private  Jones  was  detailed 
as  orderly  to  the  commanding  officer.  She  passed  him 
several  times  during  the  day  as  he  followed  the  portly 
figure  of  the  colonel  in  the  daily  round  of  garrison  inspec- 
tion, and  she  could  not  help  remarking  to  her  friend,  Miss 
Probang,  the  doctor's  daughter,  who  accompanied  her, 
how  handsome  and  soldierly  the  orderly  looked  in  his 
trim  and  well-fitting  uniform.  The  days  went  by,  and 
Private  Jones,  instead  of  lingering  in  her  recollection 
merely  as  one  who  had  done  her  a  service,  grew  to  be 
the  central  figure  in  her  thoughts.  She  began  to  take 
an  unusual  interest  in  the  morning  parades,  and  her  eyes 
brightened  as  they  dwelt  upon  a  stalwart  figure  on  the 
extreme  right  of  the  leading  battery,  as  the  regiment  in 
column  of  companies  swept  past  in  review.  This  grow- 
ing regard  for  one  beyond  the  pale  of  social  cognizance 
began  to  frighten  her,  and  when  she  asked  herself  what 
this  new  emotion  was  that  stirred  her  pulses  and  thrilled 
her  with  a  vague  delight,  she  dared  not  supply  the  answer. 
An  officer's  daughter  to  be  captivated  by  the  personal 
beauty  of  a  private  soldier, — it  was  ridiculous  !  Consid- 
eration for  her  friends  and  respect  for  the  honor  of  her 
family  demanded  that  she  should  stifle  this  rising  regard, 
and  she  strove  with  all  her  strength  to  subdue  it.  But 
her  efforts  were  in  vain,  for  this  vulgar  passion  daily  gather- 
ing strength  gradually  overwhelmed  her  remaining  scruples 
of  shame,  pride,  and  self-respect,  and  she  finally  awoke  to 
the  humiliating  yet  pleasing  consciousness  that  she  loved 
the  handsome  Private  Jones  with  all  the  strength  of  her 
impetuous  nature. 

In  the  performance  of  his  duties  in  various  parts  of  the 
garrison  Private  Jones  frequently  passed  Miss  Quilkey,  and 
he  had  long  formed  a  mental  opinion  that  she  was  the  love- 
liest girl  he  had  ever  seen.  At  first  his  thoughts  were  simply 
the  outcome  of  that  respectful  admiration  with  which  any 
honest  man  may  regard  a  beautiful  woman,  however  wide 


130  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE  EIGHTH. 

the  social  gulf  between  them.  During  the  weeks  following 
the  accident  on  the  lake  he  also  frequently  met  her  in  his 
solitary  walks  in  the  adjacent  country,  sometimes  alone, 
sometimes  accompanied  by  her  lady  friends  of  the  garri- 
son, and  on  every  occasion  she  gave  him  a  little  inclination 
of  her  dainty  head  by  way  of  recognition,  from  which  he 
knew  that  the  remembrance  of  his  service  still  lived  grate- 
fully in  her  recollection.  Her  exquisite  beauty  daily  grew 
upon  him,  and  he  began  to  look  forward  to  his  afternoon 
walks  with  unwonted  interest.  Ere  long  he  felt  that  his 
nascent  admiration  was  growing  into  a  warmer  and  deeper 
emotion,  and  at  last  he  stood  face  to  face  with  the  fact  that 
he  was  hopelessly,  desperately  in  love.  Had  he  not  been 
so  deeply  in  earnest  he  would  have  laughed  at  the  very  idea 
of  such  preposterous  presumption.  As  it  was,  he  felt  that 
the  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  stamp  out  this  absurd 
passion  at  any  cost  to  himself,  and,  lover-like,  proceeded 
very  illogically  to  continue  his  walks,  arguing  that  whatever 
his  ultimate  course  might  be,  he  need  not  at  present  deny 
himself  the  happiness  of  seeing  her.  Had  he  only  known 
the  state  of  her  mind  his  own  might  have  been  less  gloomy. 
Sometimes  when  he  passed  her  he  fancied  that  he  noticed 
a  rising  flush  siififusing  the  lovely  face,  and  he  wondered 
whether  she  could  have  any  suspicion  of  his  secret.  Private 
Jones,  though  a  common  soldier,  was  a  man  of  honor  and  a 
man  of  sense.  He  determined  that  by  no  act  of  his  should 
she  ever  learn  that  secret,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  apply 
for  a  transfer  to  the  Seventh  Cavalry,  at  that  time  stationed 
near  a  hostile  Indian  encampment,  in  the  hope  that  in  the 
hardship  and  excitement  of  campaign  life  he  might  find  a 
nepenthe.  The  next  day  he  made  out  his  application  and 
handed  the  'same  to  the  first  sergeant  until  the  return  of 
Captain  Hardtack,  who  had  left  the  post  on  a  three  days' 
leave  of  absence.  Now,  in  Battery  "A"  there  was  a  cer- 
tain Private  Robinson  who  had  won  the  virgin  affections  of 
a  buxom  female  domestic  of  Milesian  extraction  who  pre- 
sided over  the  culinary  department  in  the  quarters  of 
Captain  Ouilkey.  As  enlisted  men  were  not  allowed  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  officers'  quarters,  save  in  line  of  duty, 
the  gallant  Private  Robinson  was  reduced  to  the  necessity 
of  holding  stolen  meetings  in  the  unromantic  seclusion  of 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  I3I 

the  scullery,  where  about  three  nights  a  week  he  discussed 
his  future  matrimonial  plans,  and  simultaneously  disposed 
of  surreptitious  snacks  of  cold  comestibles  which  the  buxom 
cook,  devoutly  believing  in  the  old  adage,  "  the  way  to  a 
man's  heart  is  through  his  stomach,"  abstracted  from  the 
larder  for  his  refection.  Among  other  garrison  gossip 
which  he  retailed  one  night  for  the  delectation  of  his  lady- 
love was  the  fact  that  Private  Jones  had  applied  for  a 
transfer  to  the  front.  There  was  really  nothing  in  this 
particular  fact  to  interest  the  fair  Milesian,  but  the  war 
with  the  Sioux  was  at  that  time  the  principal  topic  of 
discussion  throughout  the  garrison,  and  Private  Robinson 
incidentally  mentioned  Private  Jones's  transfer  in  the  course 
ol  a  lengthy  dissertation  on  the  campaign,  wherein  he  proved 
to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  himself  and  the  buxom  cook 
that  had  the  war  been  conducted  on  the  principles  he  laid 
down  the  whole  affair  would  have  been  amicably  settled 
long  ago.  As  there  appeared  to  be  no  prospect  of  any 
immediate  refreshment,  he  concluded  by  expressing  a  de- 
sire to  be  summarily  scalped  if  he  didn't  apply  for  a  trans- 
fer himself  before  guard-mount  next  morning.  This  con- 
tingency so  alarmed  the  buxom  cook  that  she  forthwith 
went  to  an  adjoining  cupboard,  and  produced  therefrom 
a  bottle  and  the  remains  of  a  beefsteak  pie,  a  proceeding 
which  previous  experience  had  taught  her  was  usually 
followed  by  unusual  good  spirits  on  the  part  of  her  ad- 
mirer. 

Private  Robinson  winked  at  his  reflection  in  a  small  mir- 
ror on  the  opposite  wall  as  a  tribute  to  the  success  of  his 
diplomacy,  and  after  several  draughts  from  the  bottle  to  the 
health  of  the  buxom  cook,  he  proceeded  to  demolish  the 
pie,  afterwards  allaying  her  fears  with  the  assurance  that 
"she  needn't  feel  no  alarm,  he  wasn't  going  to  no  front  no- 
how." 

The  day  after  this  tete-a-tHe,  Mrs.  Quilkey  descended  to 
the  subterranean  depths  of  the  kitchen  to  superintend  the 
manufacture  of  an  enormous  cake  and  the  composition  of 
various  other  delicacies,  in  preparation  for  an  approaching 
party  to  be  given  in  celebration  of  her  daughter's  twentieth 
birthday.  In  these  domestic  duties  she  was  assisted  by  that 
accomplished  young  lady  and  the  buxom  cook,  whose  mind 


132  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

was  much  exercised  in  fabricating  a  diatribe  upon  the  thievish 
propensities  of  a  very  placid-looking  cat  purring  contentedly 
by  the  stove,  from  which  she  hoped  her  mistress  would  account 
inferentially  for  the  disappearance  of  the  pie,  the  absence  of 
which  that  careful  housewife  had  already  noticed.  ' '  Would 
you  belave,  mum,  not  alone  the  pie,  but  last  Monday  night 
that  thafe  of  a  cat  stole  the  lavings  of  the  fish,  which  they 
are  that  partial  to  as  you  may  'ave  '  eard,  to  say  nothin'  of  nigh 
a  pound  of  steak,"  said  the  buxom  cook,  with  an  assump- 
tion of  virtuous  indignation,  not,  however,  without  a  twinge 
of  conscience  at  the  maze  of  mendacity  into  which  Private 
Robinson's  extraordinary  appetite  bade  fair  to  lead  her. 
At  any  other  time  Mrs.  Quilkey  might  have  expressed  her 
scepticism  as  to  the  cat's  ability  to  purloin  a  beefsteak  pie 
from  the  upper  shelf  of  a  closed  cupboard,  but  this  morn- 
ing her  mind  was  greatly  perturbed  by  a  growing  rumor, 
which  had  some  official  weight,  to  the  effect  that,  in  view 
of  the  grave  state  of  affairs  at  the  front,  there  was  a  proba- 
bility of  the  Eighth  Artillery  being  ordered  into  the  field  to 
serve  as  infantry.  She  therefore  contented  herself  with 
merely  desiring  the  cook  to  be  more  careful  in  future,  and 
then  began  to  discuss  the  topic  of  the  hour  with  her  daugh- 
ter, expressing  the  fear  that  the  troops  might  be  ordered  to 
take  the  field  at  any  moment.  "  Indade,  mum,  I  'ope  not," 
said  the  buxom  cook,  with  a  sympathetic  air.  "Them 
Indians  is  such  murtherin'  wretches,  more  betoken  I'm 
after  'earin'  last  night  as  Private  Jones,  the  young  man  what 
saved  your  life,  miss,  as  is  in  the  same  battery  along  with 
Private  Robinson,  which  is  my  'usban'  that  is  to  be, 
is  that  anxious  to  go  he's  gone  and  transferred  there." 
This  statement  caused  Miss  Quilkey  the  greatest  agitation, 
and  as  soon  as  her  mother  left  the  kitchen  she  took 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  question  the  buxom  cook 
further  on  the  matter.  And  the  buxom  cook,  little  sus- 
pecting the  interest  her  words  excited,  repeated  that  all 
she  had  been  told  was  that  Private  Jones  had  obtained  a 
transfer  to  the  Seventh  Cavalry.  It  was  only  when  she 
heard  this  that  Miss  Quilkey  realized  the  depth  and  strength 
of  her  affection.  The  last  few  days  when  alone  in  her  own 
room  she  had  asked  herself  what  would  be  the  outcome  of 
her  degrading  love  for  Private  Jones,  and  had  half  tortured 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  I33 

herself  into  a  determination  to  adopt  heroic  measures  ;  in 
other  words,  to  go  on  a  lengthy  visit  to  some  relatives  of 
her  mother's,  in  the  hope  of  living  it  down.  But  now  that 
he  was  going  from  her  she  felt  that  this  love  had  grown  to 
be  part  of  her  very  life  ;  she  could  not,  nay,  would  not  give 
it  up,  come  what  might.  But  what  could  she  do?  Her 
first  action  was  peculiarly  feminine.  She  went  to  her  room, 
and  in  its  friendly  solitude  indulged  in  that  soothing  resource 
which  is  known  among  the  fair  sex  as  a  "good  cry."  Her 
presence  was  required  that  day  to  assist  in  the  decoration 
of  the  hop  room  for  a  bal  masque  which  the  post  Committee 
of  Arrangements  had  decreed  should  come  off  that  evening. 
But  her  interest  in  this  work  was  gone,  and  not  a  few  of 
the  young  ladies  present  noticed  her  air  of  listlessness  and 
distraite.  During  the  afternoon  she  slipped  away  on  the 
plea  of  headache — she  should  have  said  heartache — and 
hurried  to  take  her  usual  walk,  in  the  hope  that  she  might 
meet  him  once  more  before  he  left.  She  took  the  oft-fre- 
quented road  outside  the  reservation  fence,  and  as  she 
turned  aside  from  the  main  road  into  a  narrow  pathway 
that  lead  to  the  lake,  she  saw  the  well-known  stalwart  figure 
striding  towards  her.  "  I  must  speak  to  him,"  she  said  to 
herself  She  strove  to  Still  the  rebellious  beating  of  her 
heart  :  she  must  be  calm,  or  he  would  detect  her  secret  ; 
she  would  merely  thank  him  again  for  the  service  he  had 
done  her  and  bid  him  a  formal  good-by,  and  then — but 
she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  the  dreariness  beyond.  As 
he  approached  she  noticed  that  his  face  wore  a  saddened 
and  gloomy  expression.  He  was  about  to  pass  with  the 
usual  formal  recognition,  when  he  saw  that  she  wished  to 
speak  to  him  and  stopped. 

"  Private  Jones,"  said  she,  striving  to  conceal  her  agita- 
tion, "  I  am  told  you  are  going  away.  I  am  so  sorry  that 
— in  other  words,  I  mean  to  say — that  is,  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  thank — to — to — bid  you  good-by." 

At  the  word  ' '  good-by' '  her  voice  broke  down  in  a 
pathetic  little  quaver,  and  Private  Jones,  taking  the  slender 
gloved  hand  extended  to  him,  saw  that  the  girl's  tender 
lips  were  quivering,  and  that  a  tear  trembled  on  the  long 
lashes  that  fringed  the  soft,  dark  eyes.  His  heart  throbbed 
with  a  wild,  tumultuous  joy  as  the  truth  dawned  upon  him. 


134  PRIVATE   JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH, 

He  forgot  that  he  was  a  private  soldier  ;  he  forgot  that  she 
was  an  officer's  daughter;  he  forgot  everything  save  the 
fact  that  he  loved  this  beautiful  girl,  and  that  his  affection 
was  returned.  He  drew  her  to  him  and,  bending  down, 
kissed  her  on  the  lips,  whispering,  ' '  Dearest,  this  is  too 
great  happiness  ;  may  I — dare  I  hope?"  And  Edith  Quil- 
key,  placing  both  her  hands  in  his,  bowed  her  head  and 
simply  said,  "  I  love  you." 

Then  they  wandered  off  together  into  the  unfrequented 
solitude  of  the  wood  for  a  few  delicious  moments  of  sweet 
communings,  wherein  Edith  discovered  to  her  delight  that 
her  soldier  lover  was  a  man  of  undoubted  breeding  and 
refinement. 

Now,  Lieutenant  Sympcr  looking  out  of  the  window  of 
his  quarters  happened  to  see  Miss  Quilkey  passing  out  of 
the  garrison  gate,  and  he  inferred  that  she  was  going  for 
her  usual  walk,  but  she  was  too  far  ahead  for  him  to  over- 
take her.  The  road  to  the  lake  made  a  wide  semicircular 
sweep  round  the  garrison,  and  if  he  made  a  bee-line  across 
the  reservation,  he  might  be  able  to  intercept  her,  and  at 
any  rate  have  the  pleasure  of  her  company  for  a  portion 
of  the  way.  For  some  time  past  the  lieutenant  had  been 
elaborating  a  very  poetic  effusion  in  which  he  intended  to 
make  the  offer  of  his  hand  and  heart  as  soon  as  a  favorable 
opportunity  presented  itself,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
the  road  to  the  lake  was  perhaps  as  romantic  and  secluded 
a  spot  as  could  be  found  for  the  purpose.  ' '  Now  or  never, ' ' 
said  he,  as  he  stepped  out  in  quick  time  for  the  reservation 
fence.  Between  the  fence  and  the  side-path  to  the  lake  was 
a  thicket  of  considerable  width  through  which  he  had  to 
make  his  way.  As  he  was  about  to  step  from  this  thicket 
into  the  roadway  his  eyes  encountered  a  sight  which  trans- 
fixed him  with  astonishment.  Could  he  believe  the  evi- 
dence of  his  senses  ?  There,  not  a  hundred  paces  away 
from  him,  was  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  about  to  make 
an  offer  of  marriage,  submitting,  and  not  unwillingly,  to 
the  osculatory  caress  of  a  private  soldier  !  As  he  stood 
there  spellbound,  they  linked  arm  in  arm  and  vanished  into 
the  opposite  thicket,  and  he  remained  for  ten  minutes  or 
more  staring  vacantly  at  the  forsaken  road,  absolutely  in- 
capable of  thought  or  motion. 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF  THE   EIGHTH.  1 35 

"Damn  that  fellow's  infernal  impudence!"  he  said  to 
himself,  finally  turning  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the  garrison. 
As  he  passed  the  guard-house  he  espied  the  spare  form  of 
Captain  Hardtack  crossing  the  parade-ground,  and  forget- 
ting all  his  personal  enmity  in  the  discovery  which  meant 
discomfiture  to  both  of  them,  and  thus  extinguished  their 
rivalry,  he  determined  to  tell  the  captain  what  he  had  seen 
in  the  wood.  Captain  Hardtack  appeared  to  be  totally 
unconscious  of  the  approach  of  his  subaltern,  and  affected 
to  take  an  absorbing  interest  in  the  frantic  efforts  of  a 
teamster  of  the  quartermaster's  department  to  induce  a  re- 
fractory mule  to  proceed  in  a  straight  line,  that  obstinate 
animal  having  an  insane  predilection  for  travelling  sideways 
like  a  crab.  "  Captain  Hardtack,  I  have  something  I  wish 
to  say  to  you  if  you  can  spare  the  time,"  said  the  lieutenant, 
with  intense  solemnity. 

Captain  Hardtack  feigned  a  start  of  surprise,  as  though 
Lieutenant  Symper  was  the  very  last  person  he  expected 
to  see,  and  then  said,  in  a  very  frigid  tone,  ' '  I  am  at  the 
orderly-room  every  morning  at  half-past  seven,  Mr.  Symper, 
when  I  shall  be  pleased  to  listen  to  anything  you  may  have 
to  say  to  me  ah — er — in  the  line  of  duty. ' ' 

"  But  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  line  of  duty,"  said 
the  lieutenant,  with  some  agitation.  "  It  is  a  matter  which 
nearly  concerns  us  both." 

"  I  was  not  aware,  Mr.  Symper,"  said  the  captain,  with 
an  abortive  effort  to  assume  an  expression  of  hauteur, — "  I 
was  not  aware,  Mr.  Symper,  that  anything  in  which  you 
are  concerned  could  by  any  possible  chance  ah — er — have 
the  slightest  interest  for  me." 

"But  it  has,"  continued  the  lieutenant,  ignoring  in  his 
persistence  the  captain's  studied  insolence,  "and  so  you 
will  admit  if  you  will  grant  me  a  few  moments  for  explana- 
tion." And  the  captain,  seeing  that  the  lieutenant  had 
evidently  something  out  of  the  ordinary  to  communicate, 
led  the  way  to  his  quarters. 

Captain  Hardtack  was  at  first  inclined  to  think  that 
Lieutenant  Symper  must  be  suffering  from  some  species 
of  hallucination,  and  on  second  thoughts  that  this  extraor- 
dinary story  was  some  overreaching  subtlety  on  the  part 
of  his  subaltern  that  he  could  not  at  present  fathom.     He, 


136  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

however,  felt  that  it  must  be  the  truth  when  the  heutenant 
continued  : 

"Captain  Hardtack,  our  relations  have  been  somewhat 
strained  of  late  owing  to  our  rivalry  over  this — over  Miss 
Quilkey.  As  I  do  not  care  to  number  among  my  ac- 
quaintances, much  less  to  regard  as  my  future  wife,  a 
woman  who  could  so  far  forget  herself  as  to  engage  in  a 
low  amour  with  a  private  soldier,  I  no  longer  consider 
myself  a  suitor  for  her  hand,  and  I  trust  that  from  this 
moment  our  estrangement  may  cease." 

Now,  Captain  Hardtack,  whatever  his  other  faults,  cer- 
tainly loved  Miss  Quilkey  with  all  the  intensity  of  his 
nature,  and  he  determined  not  to  give  her  up  under  any 
circumstances.  He  felt  that  her  affection  for  Private  Jones 
could  be  nothing  more  than  a  foolish  fancy  which  would  die 
out  when  the  object  of  it  was  removed.  He  congratulated 
himself  that  Jones's  application  for  transfer  was  still  in  his 
hands  ;  he  could  easily  revoke  the  indorsement  of  disap- 
proval he  had  put  on  that  morning  and  forward  the  applica- 
tion "approved  and  recommended."  The  transfer  would 
undoubtedly  "go  through,"  as  men  were  badly  needed  on 
the  frontier.  Lieutenant  Symper's  rivalry  was  no  longer 
to  be  dreaded,  and  the  captain  really  believed  that  his  pros- 
pects, which  latterly  he  had  begun  to  regard  as  somewhat 
gloomy,  looked  brighter  than  ever  before. 

"I  think,"  he  said  to  Lieutenant  Symper,  after  having 
maturely  considered  the  case, — "I  think  you  had  better 
mention  this  painful  matter  to  Captain  Quilkey  in  a  quiet 
moment.  He  is  in  the  city  on  business  just  now,  I  believe, 
but  he  will  be  back  on  Saturday.  He  will  probably  send 
his  daughter  away  for  a  month  or  so,  and  amid  new  faces 
and  surroundings  she  will  speedily  forget  this  foolish  fancy. 
This  scoundrel  Jones  has  undoubtedly  presumed  upon  the 
service  he  once  did  her,  and  I  do  not  think  that  her  regard 
for  him  can  amount  to  anything  more  than  an  exaggerated 
sense  of  gratitude.  We  are,  of  course,  in  honor  bound 
to  keep  this  matter  secret ;  to  do  otherwise  would  only  in- 
volve Miss  Quilkey  in  humiliation  and  disgrace.  As  for 
this  villain  Jones,  I  will  forward  his  application  with  a  strong 
recommendation  that  it  be  granted,  and  when  once  he  is 
out  of  the  way,  depend  upon  it,  she  will  forget  him.     In 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  I37 

the  mean  time,  it  is  my  opinion  that  the  best  thing  we  can 
do  is  to  preserve  the  strictest  secrecy,  taking  care  not  to 
betray  by  any  word  or  action  that  we  have  the  sUghtest 
inkling  of  the  affair. " 

"  But  I  am  under  an  engagement  to  dine  there  this  even- 
ing, and  afterwards  to  take  her  to  the  masquerade,"  said 
Lieutenant  Symper.  ' '  How  can  I  do  this  in  the  face  of 
what  I  know?" 

"  It  is  unpleasant,  certainly, ' '  admitted  the  captain,  ' '  but 
it  will  be  policy  on  your  part  to  go  ;  indeed,  I  do  not  see 
that  you,  in  view  of  your  previous  intimacy,  can  well  make 
an  excuse  without  exciting  suspicion." 

"That  is  so,"  said  the  lieutenant,  gloomily.  "Go  I 
must,  I  suppose." 

Edith  Quilkey  had  never  appeared  to  greater  advantage 
than  she  did  that  evening.  How  could  this  brilliant,  viva- 
cious, and  accomplished  girl  condescend  to  receive  the 
vulgar  caresses  of  a  private  soldier  ?  thought  the  unhappy 
lieutenant,  as  he  listened  to  her  bright  sallies. 

"You  seem  very  dull  this  evening,  Mr.  Symper,"  she 
said,  in  surprise  at  the  lieutenant's  monosyllabic  replies, 
for  he  was  usually  so  talkative.  ' '  And  the  night  of  the 
masquerade,  too  ;  you  ought  to  be  in  your  gayest  mood." 

"  I  took  a  long  walk  this  afternoon,  and  I  don't  think  it 
agreed  with  me, ' '  replied  the  lieutenant,  with  frank  veracity. 

"Why,  I  enjoyed  my  walk  immensely,  it  was  such  a 
glorious  afternoon,"  said  Edith,  with  an  air  of  ingenuous 
innocence.  ' '  I  walked  half  round  the  reservation  fence 
and  home  by  the  lake." 

"Quite  a  long  walk  to  take — alone,"  remarked  the 
lieutenant,  curtly. 

There  was  something  in  the  way  he  said  this  so  different 
from  his  ordinary  tone — ^just  the  faintest  soupgo7i  of  sarcasm, 
the  merest  stress  of  emphasis  on  the  word  "alone" — that 
her  suspicions  were  aroused.  She  looked  at  him  ;  their 
eyes  met  steadily,  and  hers  fell, — for  she  knew  intuitively 
that  her  secret  was  known. 


12* 


138  PRIVATE   JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

V. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  officers  and  ladies  of  the  garri- 
son at  Fort  Buell  to  meet  together  every  Wednesday  even- 
ing in  the  post  Hbrary  for  the  weekly  "  hop."  One  day  it 
occurred  to  Lieutenant  Symper  to  suggest  a  bal  masgiie  as 
variation  from  the  unchanging  monotony.  This  brilliant 
inspiration  was  welcomed  with  enthusiasm  by  the  committee 
of  arrangements,  who  were  always  on  the  lookout  for  novel- 
ties. There  were  plenty  of  visitors  of  both  sexes  in  the 
post  at  the  time,  and  the  officers  had  hosts  of  friends  and 
acquaintances  in  the  city  who  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
attend,  so  that  everything  augured  well  for  the  success  of 
the  affair.  So  many  invitations  were  issued  that  the  accom- 
modations of  the  post  library  were  deemed  quite  inadequate, 
and  recourse  was  had  to  the  great  hall  of  the  gymnasium, 
the  floor  of  which  was  carefully  waxed  and  prepared  for  the 
occasion.  The  decoration  of  this  room  had  been  intrusted 
to  the  superintendence  of  Miss  Penwiper,  the  adjutant's 
daughter.  Miss  Probang,  the  doctor's  daughter.  Miss  Quil- 
key,  and  other  young  ladies  of  the  garrison,  and  right  well 
they  acquitted  themselves  of  their  task,  only  concluding 
their  arduous  labors  on  the  very  day  of  the  dance.  Shortly 
after  retreat  the  carriages  of  the  city  people  began  to  arrive, 
and  before  tattoo  had  sounded  the  hall  was  full.  The  ball- 
room was  a  scene  of  brilliant  light  and  color.  At  the  end 
of  the  great  hall,  which  was  decorated  with  tastefully-draped 
flags,  the  national  and  regimental  colors  hung  in  drooping 
folds,  surrounded  by  glittering  stacks  of  arms,  the  bright 
sheen  of  the  bayonets  and  the  crossed  swords  upon  the 
walls  glinting  with  a  thousand  flashing  rays  in  the  light  of  a 
multitude  of  delicately-shaded  lamps,  while  the  many-hued, 
quaint,  and  varied  costumes  of  the  masqueraders  imparted 
a  kaleidoscopic  diversity  to  the  scene. 

Here  might  be  seen  a  turbaned  Turk  engaged  in  con- 
versation with  a  masked  maiden  in  the  picturesque  attire 
of  a  Tyrolean  peasant-girl,  and  there  a  tall  figure  in  the 
gaudy  uniform  of  a  Spahi  officer  bending  gracefully  over  a 
settee  to  interchange  a  running  fire  of  badinage  with  some 
lovely  unknown  in  the  coquettish  dress  of  a  Mexican  po- 
blana.    The  fact  that  the  masks  and  strange  costumes  effect- 


PRIVATE   JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  1 39 

ually  concealed  the  identity  of  every  one  present  infused 
an  unwonted  spirit  of  interest  into  the  revel,  and  as  mid- 
night, the  hour  of  unmasking,  approached,  a  general  feel- 
ing of  curiosity  as  to  identities  arose,  which,  in  those  who 
had  made  use  of  so  favorable  an  opportunity  to  prosecute 
a  series  of  somewhat  vigorous  flirtations  was  not,  perhaps, 
untinged  with  misgiving.  In  spite  of  the  confusion  of 
identities  a  mutual  understanding  evidently  existed  between 
a  tall  gentleman  clad  in  conventional  evening  attire  and 
wearing  a  gray  silk  mask  and  a  young  lady  in  a  blue 
domino  and  the  dress  of  a  Spanish  dancer,  a  costume  that 
revealed  all  the  supple  curves  of  the  wearer's  graceful  and 
exquisitely-moulded  form.  In  the  early  part  of  the  even- 
ing the  gentleman  in  the  gray  silk  mask  singled  out  the 
lady  in  the  blue  domino,  and  instead  of  indulging  in  the 
stereotyped  request  for  the  pleasure  of  the  next  waltz,  said, 
in  low  voice,  "  Can  you  recognize  me,  Edith?" 

"You  here  !"  said  the  lady  in  the  blue  domino,  with  a 
start  of  unfeigned  terror.  "Oh,  pray  be  careful,  it  is  so 
very  dangerous,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  would 
happen  if  you  were  discovered." 

"Do  not  be  in  the  least  alarmed,"  said  Private  Jones, 
for  he  it  was  in  the  gray  mask.  "  In  the  very  audacity  of 
the  idea  lies  my  safety.  No  one  would  ever  suspect  a 
private  soldier  of  daring  to  mix  with  this  gay  throng." 

"But  how  did  you  get  here?  Admission  is  by  ticket, 
and  the  sentry  at  the  door  has  positive  orders  to  admit  no 
one  without  a  card  of  invitation,"  said  Edith,  adjusting  the 
blue  domino  more  securely. 

"I  found  a  blank  card  some  days  ago,"  said  Private 
Jones,  "in  the  library.  I  also  discovered  this  afternoon 
that  Private  MacTurk,  on  account  of  his  imposing  aspect, 
would  be  detailed  for  this  particular  '  sentry  go,'  and  know- 
ing that  his  education  had  been  shamefully  neglected,  I 
took  advantage  of  that  fact  and  handed  him  the  blank 
card,  which  he  accepted  with  as  much  reverence  as  though 
it  had  been  duly  signed  by  the  committee.  My  greatest 
difficulty  was  to  obtain  a  costume,  for  my  choice  was  some- 
what restricted.  I,  however,  recollected  that  this  old 
London-made  suit  of  evening  dress  still  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  my  trunk,  so  the  chances  are  I  shall  either  be  taken  for 


140  PRIVATE  JONES   OF  THE   EIGHTH. 

an  Anglomaniac  or  some  visiting  Englishman  from  the 
city.  But  you  must  reserve  as  many  of  the  waltzes  as  pos- 
sible for  me  before  twelve  o'clock,  as  by  that  time  I  must 
contrive  to  mysteriously  disappear." 

"But  I  am  so  terrified!"  whispered  Edith.  "What 
would  happen  if  you  were  discovered?  Still,  I  am  glad 
you  are  here,"  she  added,  softly.  "I  have  something 
important  to  tell  you,  so  let  us  sit  out  our  next  dance." 

"No,  not  the  next;  it  is  'My  Sweetheart;'  we  must 
dance  that,  you  know.  Let  us  sit  out  the  following 
lancers,"  said  Private  Jones. 

Edith  Quilkey  was  undoubtedly  very  frightened  at  her 
lover's  extraordinary  audacity,  but  as  she  whirled  around 
on  his  vigorous  arm  to  the  rhythmical  measures  of  the  dance 
she  became  conscious  only  of  a  languorous  sense  of  happi- 
ness, and  with  his  eyes  gazing  down  into  hers  she  forgot  all 
her  fears  and  abandoned  herself  to  a  voluptuous  glow  of 
enjoyment.  They  sat  out  the  next  dance  in  a  quiet  nook 
at  the  far  corner  of  the  hall,  and  in  this  tete-a-tete  she  told 
her  lover  her  reasons  for  believing  that  their  secret  was 
known.  "  If  Lieutenant  Symper  knows  it,  and  I  feel  sure 
he  does,  he  will  tell  papa,  and  I  shall  be  sent  away,"  she 
said,  fearfully. 

"Will  you  trust  me  implicitly,  Edith?"  asked  Private 
Jones,  who  saw  in  her  fears  an  opportunity  to  test  the 
depth  of  her  affection. 

"  Have  I  not  told  you,  dear,  that  I  would  give  up  every- 
thing for  your  sake,"  she  said,  somewhat  reproachfully. 

Private  Jones  bent  his  head  down  to  hers  and  whispered 
something.  She  did  not  reply  for  some  minutes,  but  the 
warm  blood  crimsoning  out  from  under  the  blue  domino 
spread  over  the  fair  white  neck  and  bosom,  and  bore  evi- 
dence to  the  struggle  going  on  within  her.  Finally  she 
laid  her  hand  in  his  and  said,  "  I  will,"  which,  being  inter- 
preted, meant  that  they  were  to  go  to  the  city  on  the  mor- 
row and  be  privately  married,  for  in  this  course  it  seemed 
their  only  guard  against  ultimate  separation  lay.  They 
danced  nearly  every  waltz  together,  and  Private  Jones  so 
far  forgot  himself  in  his  sense  of  delirious  enjoyment  as  to 
take  no  note  of  time,  and  it  was  not  until  Edith  said,  "  Oh, 
do  go  now  ;  it  is  a  quarter  to  twelve,"  that  he  realized  his 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH  I4I 

position,  and  with  a  fondly  whispered  "Till  to-morrow," 
he  disappeared  from  the  room. 

When  the  hour  of  unmasking  arrived  many  and  great 
were  the  surprises.  Colonel  Colchicum  was  attired  in  the 
robes  of  a  monk  of  La  Trappe,  though  his  portly  form  and 
rubicund  visage  implied  a  decided  disbelief  in  the  tenets  of 
that  ascetic  order.  Lieutenant  Symper,  who  was  of  a 
Shakespearian  turn  of  mind,  appeared  as  Bottom,  a  charac- 
ter which  Miss  Quilkey  wickedly  said  to  her  friend  Miss 
Probang  had  one  great  advantage,  had  he  only  known  it, 
in  that  he  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble  of  purchas- 
ing a  mask.  Captain  Hardtack  looked  supremely  uncom- 
fortable in  a  coat  of  chain  mail  of  the  twelfth  century  period, 
several  sizes  too  large  for  him.  There  was  a  vague  impres- 
sion prevailing  that  he  intended  to  represent  Richard  Coeur 
de  Lion,  though  his  slight,  spare  form  certainly  was  not  sug- 
gestive of  the  herculean  proportions  of  the  kingly  Crusader. 
Opinions  seemed  to  be  about  equally  divided  as  to  the  cos- 
tume of  Mrs.  Colchicum,  a  wonderful,  bag-like,  waistless 
creation  covered  all  over  with  variegated  furbelows  and  ex- 
aggerated flounces,  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  stupendous 
turban  of  gorgeous  hue  and  complicated  structure,  some 
inclining  to  the  belief  that  she  represented  a  lady  of  the 
Georgian  era,  others  that  she  intended  to  impersonate  the 
Great  Mogul. 

"  Who  was  that  tall  gentleman  who  danced  with  you  so 
frequently,  Edith?"  said  Mrs.  Quilkey  next  morning. 

"Really,  ma,  I  could  not  see  through  that  thick  silk 
mask,  and  he  left  the  hall  before  twelve  o'clock,"  returned 
Edith,  with  ready  equivocation.  "But  did  he  not  waltz 
divinely?" 

Two  days  after  the  ball  Private  Jones  was  detailed  as 
orderly,  and  in  the  forenoon  of  the  same  day  Captain  Quil- 
key came  back  to  the  post.  Lieutenant  Symper,  who  was 
on  the  watch  for  him,  went  over  to  the  captain's  quarters 
to  unburden  himself  of  his  unpleasant  news.  The  stern 
old  quartermaster  heard  him  out  in  silence,  and  then  said, 
his  face  flushing  deeply, — 

"By  G ,  sir,  if  this  preposterous  story  is  not  true, 

I " 

"The  word  'if,'  Captain  Quilkey,  insinuates  a  doubt  of 


142  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH. 

my  veracity.  Ask  your  daughter  before  you  condemn  my 
statement ;  she  shall  be  my  witness,"  said  the  lieutenant, 
hotly. 

"  I  intend  to  ask  her,  sir." 

"In  that  event,  sir,  you  will  permit  me  to  withdraw. 
You  will  admit  that  it  is  scarcely  fitting  a  third  party  should 
be  present." 

"I  will  admit  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir,"  retorted  the 
captain,  ringing  the  bell  furiously. 

"Send  Miss  Quilkey  here  !"  he  shouted  to  the  buxom 
cook,  who  answered  his  terrific  peal  with  an  expression  on 
her  features  as  though  she  were  apprehensive  that  the  house 
was  on  fire. 

Edith  came  down  looking  very  lovely  in  her  light  morn- 
ing gown,  but  at  the  sight  of  Lieutenant  Symper  and  her 
father's  angry  face  she  turned  visibly  pale. 

"  Edith,  I  have  just  heard  a  most  extraordinary  story," 
said  the  captain,  and  he  repeated  the  sum  and  substance  of 
Lieutenant  Symper' s  statement.  "  Tell  me  it  is  not  true," 
he  added,  pathetically. 

"It  is  true,  papa,"  said  Edith,  growing  pale  as  death. 
' '  But  I  love  him  very  dearly. ' ' 

"  Love  be !"  roared  the  furious  old  man,  concluding 

his  sentence  with  a  word  that  rhymes  with  "jammed." 

"And  oh,  papa,  I  must  tell  you,  I — I — he  is — I  am  his 
wife,"  said  Edith,  tremblingly. 

"What!"  shouted  the  captain  and  the  lieutenant,  in  a 
simultaneous  burst  of  incredulous  astonishment. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  knock  came  to  the  outer  door,  and 
immediately  afterwards  the  colonel  entered,  while  his  or- 
derly, Private  Jones,  could  be  seen  pacing  up  and  down 
the  front  of  the  quarters  outside.  The  colonel  saw  at  a 
glance  that  the  relations  were  somewhat  strained,  and  having 
a  wholesome  horror  of  domestic  scenes,  he  would  have  beaten 
a  hasty  retreat  had  not  Captain  Quilkey  closed  the  door. 

"No,  no,  colonel!"  he  said,  almost  sobbing.  "Advise 
me,  my  friend,  in  this  disgrace  that  has  fallen  upon  me." 
And  in  a  few  broken  sentences  he  explained  the  situation  to 
the  astonished  colonel. 

"  God  bless  my  soul  !"  said  that  bewildered  warrior  when 
he  heard  the  story,     * '  Call  the  orderly  in,  Mr.  Symper. ' ' 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  I43 

"You  scoundrel!  You  infernal  villain  !"  shouted  Cap- 
tain Quilkey,   his  face  purple  with  fury,  as  Private  Jones 

entered  the  room.     "  Out  of  my  sight,  or "     Here  his 

comminatory  language  came  to  a  dead  stop  from  absolute 
want  of  breath,  and  the  threat  remained  unuttered. 

Private  Jones  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  saluted 
the  colonel  with  military  precision,  and  stood  to  attention 
at  the  door,  looking  as  little  like  a  scoundrel  as  it  is  possible 
to  conceive. 

As  he  stood  there,  Edith,  still  very  pale,  but  quite  calm 
and  collected,  crossed  the  room,  linked  her  arm  with  his, 
and  clung  by  his  side. 

"Sir,"  said  Private  Jones,  addressing  the  colonel,  "I 
had  intended  to  see  Captain  Quilkey  when  relieved  from 
guard  for  the  purpose  of  making  an  explanation  in  regard 
to  this  matter,  but  this  unexpected  contretemps  has  rendered 
it  necessary  that  I  should  make  that  explanation  now.  My 
present  name  I  may  say  is  a  pseudonyme  :  I  am  the  son  of  the 
late  Gilbert  Longhurst,  the  millionaire  of  New  York  City, 
of  whom  you  may  possibly  have  heard.  I  quarrelled  with 
my  father  some  years  ago,  and  with  the  perversity  and  ob- 
stinacy of  youth  declined  to  make  any  overtures  of  recon- 
ciliation. I  left  home  to  make  my  way  in  the  world 
unaided.  I  was  possessed  of  a  small  annuity  from  my 
mother's  estate,  which  was  sufficient  to  provide  me  with 
the  necessaries  of  life,  but  having  no  wish  to  lead  an  utterly 
purposeless  existence,  and  being  totally  unacquainted  with 
any  method  of  earning  a  livelihood,  I  enlisted  in  the  United 
States  service  with  the  ultimate  intention  of  trying  for  a 
commission.  For  reasons  in  no  wise  connected  with  the 
subject  at  issue  I  abandoned  this  idea.  You  know  how  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  be  instrumental  in  saving  the  life 
of  Miss — of  my  wife  ;  a  circumstance  which  was  the  means 
of  bringing  us  together,  and  which  resulted  in  a  mutual 
affection.  I  received  a  letter  some  days  ago  informing  me 
of  the  death  of  my  father,  an  event  which  has  materially 
altered  my  social  status.  I  said  nothing  of  this  to  my 
wife,  as  I  wished  to  see  whether  she  would  abandon 
all  that  she  held  dear  for  one  she  believed  to  be  nothing 
more  than  a  private  soldier.  The  fact  that  she  did  so  unre- 
servedly is  to  me  the  sweetest  evidence  of  the  depth  and 


144  PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE    EIGHTH. 

unselfishness  of  her  affection.  It  may  perhaps  induce  Cap- 
tain Quilkey  to  modify  his  harsh  opinion  of  me,  and  may 
hkewise  tend  to  remove  that  opprobrium  which  will  naturally 
be  visited  upon  my  wife  for  having-  contracted  what  is  doubt- 
less considered  an  ignominious  mesalliance,  when  I  say  that 
by  the  death  of  my  father  I  have  inherited  an  estate  valued 
at  something  like  two  million  dollars.  In  proof  of  this 
statement  I  am  prepared  to  hand  you  letters  from  a  well- 
known  legal  firm  in  New  York  City.  I  have  now,  sir, 
only  to  respectfully  request  your  approval  to  an  application 
for  the  purchase  of  my  discharge,  which  will  be  laid  before 
you  in  the  morning." 

To  say  that  this  announcement  produced  a  sensation  ex- 
presses the  situation  very  inadequately.  Every  one  was  in 
a  state  of  stupefaction.  The  colonel  was  the  first  to  recover 
from  the  astonishment  this  extraordinary  turn  of  affairs  had 
caused,  and  at  once  recognized  the  altered  status  of  his 
orderly. 

"Jones,"  said  he,  "I  shall  be  pleased  to  approve  your 
application  for  discharge.  In  the  mean  time  it  will  be  as 
well  for  you  to  take  a  leave  of  absence.  Tell  the  sergeant 
of  the  guard  to  send  the  supernumerary  over  as  orderly  in 
your  place  :  you  are  relieved  from  duty  this  moment." 

Private  Jones  saluted  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  His 
lovely  wife,  her  face  crimsoned  now  with  a  glow  of  mingled 
pride  and  love,  crossed  over  to  her  astounded  father,  and, 
putting  her  arms  round  his  neck,  whispered,  coaxingly, 
"  Papa  dear,  forgive  us." 

That  night  the  stern  old  man  shook  hands  with  his  soldier 
son-in-law,  immeasurably  happy  to  find  that  his  beautiful 
daughter  had  not  made  a  mesalliance  after  all. 

When  the  news  became  the  property  of  the  garrison  it 
created  a  tremendous  sensation.  Dozens  of  soldiers  sud- 
denly discovered  that  they  had  always  anticipated  some- 
thing of  the  sort,  and  the  buxom  cook  remarked  to  Private 
Robinson,  as  he  disposed  of  a  liberal  allowance  of  ham  and 

eggs,— 

"Sure  an'  it's  himself  was  always  a  gintleman,  with  his 
illegant  ways. ' ' 

As  for  Captain  Hardtack,  he  did  not  appear  in  the 
bachelor's  mess  for  some  days,  and  it  was  currently  re- 


PRIVATE  JONES   OF   THE   EIGHTH.  I45 

ported  at  that  festive  board  that  the  gallant  captain  com- 
muned with  himself  in  closed  quarters  in  language  which  is 
best  represented  on  paper  in  a  succession  of  blanks.  Lieu- 
tenant Symper  for  a  time  forswore  the  society  of  the  fickle 
sex  altogether,  and  made  abortive  efforts  to  cultivate  the 
cynical  air  of  a  confirmed  misogynist ;  but  his  susceptible 
nature  speedily  recovered  from  the  blow,  and  ere  long  he 
surrendered  to  the  charms  of  Miss  Penwiper,  whom  he 
finally  married  with  great  eclat. 


L' ENVOI. 


In  a  lovely  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  River, 
Edward  Longhurst  and  his  lovely  wife  still  live,  and  their 
youthful  son  and  heir  is  never  tired  of  listening  to  tales  of 
the  time  when  "  papa"  was  "  Private  Jones  of  the  Eighth." 


13 


JACK  HILTON'S    LOVE-AFFAIR. 


Lieutenant  John  Randolph  Hilton,  or,  more  briefly, 
Jack  Hilton,  as  he  was  familiarly  known  among  his  more 
intimate  acquaintance,  sat  in  the  cosey  and  elegantly-ap- 
pointed library  of  the  paternal  mansion  on  Madison  Ave- 
nue, with  the  morning  paper  in  his  hands  and  his  eyes  fixed 
with  a  look  of  apparently  profound  interest  upon  the  column 
devoted  to  sporting  news.  He  had  just  completed  his 
twenty-fourth  year  ;  was  nearly  six  feet  tall,  with  a  form 
finely  proportioned,  clear  blue  eyes,  light  hair,  and  com- 
plexion to  match,  regular  features,  and  of  easy  and  en- 
gaging manners.  He  was  an  adept  in  all  manly  sports  and 
athletic  exercises ;  a  bold  and  fearless  rider,  with  an  almost 
overweening  love  of  horseflesh  ;  which  latter  trait  had,  a  few 
days  before,  led  him,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  into  doing 
a  very  foolish  thing.  He  had  bet — some  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  say  recklessly  for  a  person  of  his  rather  slender 
means — upon  his  favorite  horse,  which  had  been  badly 
beaten  in  the  late  races  at  Jerome  Park  ;  and  which  fact, 
being  duly  chronicled  in  the  morning  papers,  would  have 
afforded  him,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  food  for  reflection  of  a 
somewhat  painful  nature.  But  it  would  have  been  apparent 
to  a  close  observer  that  his  eyes  were  not  following  the 
lines  ;  and,  from  his  expression,  that  the  subject-matter  be- 
fore him  was  not  that  which  engrossed  his  thoughts. 

This  was  further  evinced  by  his  suddenly  tossing  the 
paper  aside,  rising  abruptly  from  his  chair,  and  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room,  muttering  to  himself,  "  By  Jove,  a 
capital  idea  !  If  this  isn't  a  stroke  in  love's  diplomacy  that 
is  sure  to  win,  let  no  one  hereafter  say  that  there  is  the 
first  spark  of  genius  in  Jack  Hilton's  noddle,  that's  all." 

He  resumed  his  seat  a  minute  or  two  after  with  an  air  of 
intense  self-satisfaction,   and   lit  a  cigar  just  as  the  door 
opened  and  a  young  man  entered  the  room, 
146 


JACK    HILTON  S    LOVE-AFFAIR.  I47 

"Accept  my  sincerest  condolences,  old  boy,"  were  his 
first  words,  as  he  extended  his  hand  to  his  friend.  "  Can't 
stop  but  a  moment  ;  but  I  thought  you  needed  sympathy." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  don't  want  your  condolences  or  your  sym- 
pathy," exclaimed  Hilton.  "  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life. 
Congratulate  me,  old  fellow  !  Congratulate  me  !  Victory 
is  at  last  in  sight." 

"Well,  you  do  take  it  rather  peculiarly,  to  say  the  least," 
remarked  the  other,  laughing.  ' '  For  a  man  who  is  just 
out  of  pocket  a  cool  three  hundred  to  ask  the  congratula- 
tions of But  you  know  you  have  not  won  your " 

"  I  say  I  have, — just  as  good  as  won,"  exclaimed  Hilton. 

"Just  as  good  as  won  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  his 
friend,  regarding  him  with  a  perplexed  look.  "Are  you 
crazy  ?  I  tell  you,  you  have  lost.  Why,  Excelsior  came 
in  third.     Haven't  you  seen  the  morning  papers?" 

"Oh,"  said  Hilton,  with  a  laugh,  "you  are  talking 
about  those  beastly  races." 

' '  The  man  actually  laughs  about  it.  Of  course  I  am. 
And  I  must  say,  as  the  result  of  your  first  venture " 

"  And  I  say,"  exclaimed  Hilton,  interrupting  him,  "  con- 
found the  races  !  My  brain  was  full  of  another  matter.  Sit 
down  ;  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

His  friend,  Charles  Levison,  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  fireplace  and  seated  himself 

' '  Fire  away  ;  let  fly  the  shafts  of  your  eloquence,  Roa- 
noke (sometimes  facetiously  so  called  by  his  friends  on 
account  of  his  illustrious  namesake),  for  I  think  I  rightly 
surmise  your  theme,  and  I  am  all  attention,"  he  said,  set- 
tling himself  comfortably  back  in  his  chair  and  regarding 
Hilton  with  a  somewhat  amused  expression, 

"As  my  oldest  and  most  esteemed  friend,  Charlie," 
Hilton  began,  handing  him  a  cigar  and  relighting  his  own, 
' '  whom  I  have  made  my  confidant  all  along,  as  you  know, 
in  this  affaire  dii  cceiir  of  mine  with  Louise,  I  am  now 
going  to  confide  to  you  my  next  proposed  step.  It  will 
bring  her  to  my  arms  at  once,  I  feel  sure.  I  am  going  to 
write  a  novel.  I  did  think  at  first  that  I  would  attempt  a 
poem  ;  something  in  the  style  of  '  Childe  Harold'  ;  regular 
Spenserian  metre,  four  cantos,  and  all  that ;  but  I'm  afraid 
poesy  wouldn't  prove  my  winning  card  ;    my — my  forte 


148  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

doesn't  lie  exactly  in  that  direction;  No  ;  I'll  write  a 
novel." 

Levison  did  not  look  the  least  bit  enlightened.  He  could 
not  see  the  connection  between  Hilton's  writing  a  novel  and 
his  way  to  the  fair  Louise's  heart.  But  he  smoked  on  in 
silence,  and  awaited  further  developments. 

"Louise,  you  know,"  pursued  his  friend,  "besides  her 
other  charms  and  accomplishments,  is  possessed  of  high 
literary  attainments  ;  being  in  that  respect,  indeed,  espe- 
cially gifted.  She  dotes  on  Byron  and  Moore,  admires 
sentiments  strongly  and  warmly  expressed,  and  inclines 
almost  wholly  to  the  romantic  school  of  poets, — as  she  calls 
it ;  and  she  has  often  accused  me  of  having  no  poetry  in 
my  soul,  because  I  don't  go  off  into  high-flown  raptures, 
like  herself,  over  her  favorite  authors.  Imagine  a  veteran 
like  me,  a  plain,  matter-of-fact,  hardy  old  son  of  Mars,  pay- 
ing court  to  the  Muses,  and  falling  into  ecstasies  of  that 
kind  !  But  I  am  sure  she  likes  me  ;  though,  like  all  of  her 
sex,  she  is,  of  course,  more  or  less  fickle.  She  sort  of 
plays  fast  and  loose  with  me.  One  day  she  warms  and 
another  fairly  freezes  me.  I  don't  know  how  often  she  has 
said  to  me,  'Jack,  if  you  were  only  an  author.'  Indeed, 
she  has  said  it  so  often,  and  at  times,  as  I  have  thought, 
with  such  peculiar  significance,  that  I  have  been  tempted 
to  interpret  her  meaning  into,  '  Jack,  if  you  were  only  an 
author,  I'd  marry  you.'  Now,  you  know,  I'm  not  literary 
myself, — that  is,  not  particularly  so  ;  and  there's  all  the 
trouble.  Louise  is  so  awfully  literary  herself  that,  no  doubt, 
she  has  made  up  her  mind  she  won't  marry  a  man  who 
isn't.     Hinc  illcz  lachrynicB.     Yes,  I  shall  write  a  novel." 

"Why  not  begin  in  a  more  modest  way,  with  a  short 
essay  !' '  said  Levison.      ' '  But  can  you  write  a  novel  ?' ' 

"  Of  course  I  can't.  When  I  spoke  of  doing  so  I  simply 
meant  the  mechanical  or  manual  part." 

' '  But,  my  dear  fellow,  it  requires  brains — some  at  least — 
as  well  as  hands  to  be  an  author." 

"Well,  not  necessarily  in  all  cases,"  laughed  Hilton, 
"judging  from  some  of  the  specimens  of  the  literary  art 
with  which  the  market  is  now  glutted.  But  in  my  case, 
others  will  supply  the  brains." 

"Ah!    I   see.     In  plain  English,  you  will  bribe  some 


JACK    HILTON  S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  I49 

poor  devil  of  an  author  to  write  your  novel  for  you,  which, 
when  transcribed  into  your  own  handwriting,  you  will  pro- 
ceed to  palm  off  upon  an  unsuspecting  public  as  the  off- 
spring of  your  own  genius." 

"You  haven't  quite  hit  it,"  said  Hilton;  "but  not  to 
keep  you  in  suspense  any  longer,  I  will  now  let  you  into 
my  secret.  But  first — make  me  a  bet ;  for  I  want  to  win 
back  some  of  the  money  I  lost  on  that  confounded  horse. 
I  will  wager  you  a  hundred  to  fifty  that  I  will  write  and 
have  published,  within  one  month  from  the  present  time, 
a  good,  readable  novel,  not  of  my  own  composition  or 
any  one  else's, — better  than  any  of  Howells's,  Bulwer's,  or 
Crawford's,  or  any  other  author,  and  a  great  deal  more 
original." 

"And  yet  not  written  by  any  one,"  observed  Levison, 
smiling  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea. 

"Now  for  my  secret,"  continued  Hilton.  "I  go  to  a 
circulating  library  and  procure — say  a  dozen  novels  ;  or  as 
many  as  I  can  carry  away  in  two  or  three  visits.  From 
each  of  these  I  select  three  chapters  and  a  half,  which  will 
give  me,  at  the  least,  forty-two  ;  enough  to  make  a  good- 
sized  novel.  The  subject,  of  course,  must  turn  upon  love 
and  heroism  ;  for  that  is  the  kind  Louise  likes." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  remarked  Levison,  amused  at 
his  friend's  earnestness,  "  there  will  be  no  connection;  no 
continuity  of  plan  or  plot." 

"  No, — but  an  amazing  degree  of  variety." 

"  And  then  the  names." 

"Those,  of  course,  I  shall  alter.  There  must  be  an 
English  nobleman, — say  the  Earl  of  Broadlands,  and  his 
young  and  lovely  daughter  and  sole  heiress,  the  Lady 
Ethelinda.  The  rival  lovers, — Sir  Marmaduke  Neville 
and  the  Count  de  Chateau  Rouge  ;  and  a  villain, — Jasper 
Blackmore.  These  are,  of  course,  the  merest  outHnes  ; 
the  other  personages  and  the  various  incidents  of  the  story, 
such  as  murders,  thrilling  adventures,  hairbreadth  escapes, 
heroic  exploits, — virtue  triumphant,  villany  defeated,  et 
caetera,  et  csetera,  I  will  work  in  as  they  shall  appear  in 
the  aforesaid  novels. ' ' 

"  A  novel  way  of  writing  one,  certainly,"  laughed  Levi- 
son.     ' '  But  Louise  will  be  sure  to  detect  the  plagiarisms. ' ' 

13* 


150  JACK   HILTON'S    LOVE-AFFAIR. 

"  I  will  take  good  care  to  guard  against  that,"  said  Hil- 
ton, "  as  I  shall  select  only  the  oldest  and  least-read  novels 
I  can  find  ;  such  as  '  Clarissa  Harlowe,'  '  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son,'  '  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,'  '  Cecilia,'  '  The  Italian,' 
and  other  antiquated  rubbish  of  that  sort.  To  be  sure, 
Louise  admires  the  romantic  and  sentimental,  and  has  read 
a  good  deal  of  such  stuff,  but  I  don' t  believe  she  ever  waded 
through  any  of  those.  Of  course,  I  shall  ask  her  advice 
on  certain  points,  and  read  the  story  to  her  before  it  is 
printed." 

"A  most  wise  precaution,  my  dear  fellow,"  remarked 
Levison,  with  a  touch  of  sly  humor  in  his  tone  ;  "  other- 
wise she  may  never  be  made  aware  of  its  existence." 

*'  Reserve  your  jokes, — at  least  till  after  the  event,  my 
dear  boy,"  retorted  Hilton.  "  And  as  for  my  confidence  in 
regard  to  that,  you  have  my  offer  of  a  bet  of  a  hundred  to 
fifty." 

*'  And  do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me  in  all  seriousness, 
Jack,"  asked  Levison,  "  that  you  think  you  can  write  that 
story  out  and  get  it  published  within  the  short  space  of  one 
month.  And,  besides,  there  is  another  difficulty  in  the 
way.  The  publishers  would  be  sure  to  detect  the  imposi- 
tion." 

"  Pshaw  !  publishers  are  used  to  such  thefts." 

"  But,  then,  other  authors  may  read  your  book  and 
expose  you.  Besides,  the  critics  would  mercilessly  tear 
you  to  pieces." 

"Authors  only  read  their  own  works.  And  as  for  the 
critics,  the  more  abused  a  book  is  the  more  it  is  read.  It 
is  the  very  best  way  to  advertise  it,  and  insure  it  a  larger 
circulation." 

"  For  a  man  who  professes  not  to  be  literary,"  remarked 
Levison,  laughing,  "  you  seem  to  have  a  pretty  good  knowl- 
edge of  the  experiences  of  publishers,  the  habits  of  authors, 
and  the  effects  of  criticism.  Nevertheless,  I  fear  your 
scheme  is  altogether  too  chimerical  ;  but  you  have  my 
best  wishes  for  your  success  all  the  same.  And  in  the 
mean  while  I  will  take  up  your  bet.  A  hundred  to  fifty  I 
think  you  said." 

' '  With  one  proviso, ' '  said  Hilton.  ' '  And  that  is  that  I 
am  not  ordered  to  march  before  the  expiration  of  the  time 


JACK    HILTON  S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  I5I 

named.  If  those  rascally  red-skins  only  behave  themselves, 
and  refrain  from  a  breach  of  the  peace  for  the  next  five 
weeks,  I  can  have  my  leave  of  absence  extended  for  that 
length  of  time,  I  am  sure." 

"  Love  and  war  are  pretty  serious  matters,  Jack  ;  aren't 
they  ?' '  said  Levison.    ' '  Bad  enough  when  taken  separately ; 

but  when  they  get  mixed  up  together Well,  one  may 

damage  the  body,  but  it  is  quite  sure  that  the  other  plays 
very  havoc  with  a  fellow's  wits." 

"Ah,  Charlie,"  said  Hilton,  sententiously,  "  'the  lord 
of  the  unerring  bow'  will  some  day  transfix  your  heart 
with  one  of  his  fatal  shafts.  You  will  then  feel  less  inclined 
to  ridicule  la  grande  passion^ 

"  Perhaps.  In  the  mean  time  I  shall  remain  in  full  en- 
joyment of  my  liberty,  and  my — wits,"  observed  Levison. 
"  '  The  lord  of  the  unerring  bow  !'  That  is  good.  You 
get  that  out  of  Byron  ;  so  it  seems  you  do  dip  into  poetry 
sometimes." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  quite  such  an  ignoramus,  in  that  respect, 
as  perhaps  Louise  thinks  I  am  ;  and  I  shall  soon  force  her 
to  confess  that  she  has  done  me  great  injustice  in  accusing 
me  of  having  no  poetry  or  sentiment  in  my  soul,"  said 
Hilton.  "And  now  that  you  know  it,  what  do  you 
think  of  my  scheme  ?" 

"  What  do  I  think  of  it?  One  word  in  parting,  my  dear 
boy,"  replied  Levison,  in  a  tone  of  unmingled  humor  and 
mock  seriousness,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat,  "which,  as 
your  sincere  friend  and  well-wisher,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to 
speak.  Remember  Marc  Antony,  Hercules,  and  Omphale, 
and  the  lion  in  love.  They  all  yielded  to  the  seduction  of 
your  '  grande  passion.'  And  what  then  became  of  their 
prowess  ?  Under  the  baleful  influence  of  this  same  '  grande 
passion,'  the  first  threw  away  a  throne,  the  second  laid  aside 
his  club  for  a  distaff,  and  the  third  tamely  submitted  to 
having  his  teeth  and  nails  extracted.  As  Jack  Bunsby 
would  remark,  '  the  bearings  of  this  obserwation  lays  in 
the  application  on  it.'      Verbum  satis  sapientis.'''' 

"  Oh,  bother  your  mythological  rubbish  !  Can't  you  be 
serious  for  once  in  your  life,  Charlie?"  cried  Hilton.  "I 
confide  in  you  as  a  supposed  sympathetic  friend,  and  I  find 
you  a  veritable  Job's  comforter?" 


Si 

152  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

"  Believe  me,  Jack,  I  wish  you  all  the  success  in  the 
world,"  responded  Levison.  "I'll  drop  in  upon  you  in  a 
day  or  two  to  learn  how  you  are  progressing.  And — let 
me  see, ' '  pausing  a  moment  by  the  open  door,  ' '  a  hundred 
to  fifty,  I  think  you  said." 


IL 

Immediately  after  his  friend's  departure,  Hilton  set 
about  his  arduous  task,  or  what  might  be  more  properly 
called  his  labor  of  love.  With  the  books  obtained  from 
the  public  library,  and  others  borrowed  from  a  few  of  his 
friends,  he  was  soon  in  possession  of  the  working  material 
from  which  was  to  arise  the  wonderful  superstructure  that 
was  destined  (as  his  rosy  imagination  pictured  it  to  him) 
to  win  for  him  the  hand  of  the  obdurate  and  fickle  Louise, 
and  perhaps  lay  the  foundation  of  his  future  fame  and  for- 
tune. How  happy  and  proud  he  would  feel  when  he  would 
have  the  right  to  say,  "  Louise,  I  am  an  author,"  and  to 
behold  her  soft  blue  eyes  turned  upon  his  with  a  look  of 
mingled  surprise,  love,  and  admiration,  and  hear  her  exclaim 
in  tones  of  unfeigned  rapture,  "  Now,  Jack,  I  am  thine. 
Take  me  !" 

In  order  to  be  free  from  interruption  he  confined  himself 
within  the  strict  privacy  of  his  own  room,  and  denied  him- 
self, upon  the  plea  of  indisposition,  to  all  callers  ;  where  he 
would  write  nearly  all  day  and  often  far  into  the  night. 
Not  to  make  his  transformation  into  a  full-fledged  author 
appear  too  sudden,  Hilton,  like  some  skilful  tactician  or 
wary  general,  bent  upon  the  capture  of  some  important 
stronghold,  made  his  advances  towards  the  purpose  he  had 
in  view  with  all  due  precaution.  Upon  those  evenings 
which  he  spent  with  Louise  he  would  deftly  turn  the  con- 
versation on  literary  topics, — no  very  difficult  thing  to  do, 
— and  descant,  in  an  animated  way,  upon  the  beauties  of 
literature  in  general,  and  those  of  Byron  and  Moore  in 
particular.  Indeed,  the  extent  and  fervor  of  his  newly- 
awakened  admiration  for  her  own  two  favorite  poets  equally 


JACK    HILTON  S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  153 

gratified  and  delighted  Louise.  She  was  endowed  in  a 
higher  than  ordinary  degree  with  fine  Hterary  abilities  and 
discriminative  powers,  and  was  at  times  a  most  unmercifiil 
critic.  She  disliked  Browning  and  laughed  at  Walt  Whit- 
man. They  did  not  belong  to  the  romantic  school  of  poets. 
Kipling's  themes  were  distastefiil  to  her;  Tennyson  and 
Longfellow,  she  thought,  might  pass,  though  neither  was 
comparable,  in  point  of  interest,  to  Scott ;  but  what  any 
one  who  could  revel  in  the  beauties  of  Byron  and  Moore 
and  Shelley  and  Keats  might  find  to  admire  in  the  two  first- 
mentioned  poets  she  couldn't  imagine  ;  and  more  than 
once,  when  she  was  indulging  in  a  merciless  dissection  of 
their  respective  faults  and  shortcomings,  as  they  appeared 
to  her,  did  a  cold  shiver  run  through  poor  Hilton  at  the 
thought  of  the  farrago  of  nonsense  that  he  had  designed 
to  prepare  for  her  especial  delectation. 

But  he  had  soon  decided  not  to  adhere  too  closely  to  his 
original  plan.  In  the  ardor  of  his  love  he  had  been  daz- 
zled, as  it  appeared  to  him,  by  the  brilliancy  of  his  concep- 
tion ;  but  when  it  began  to  pale  in  the  calm,  clear  light  of 
reason,  he  could  not  fail  to  become  impressed  with  the 
utter  absurdity  of  the  idea.  He  would  only  avail  himself 
of  such  ideas  and  suggestions  as  might  be  presented  in  the 
novels,  and  trust  to  whatever  powers  of  originality  or  inge- 
nuity he  might  possess  to  maintain  at  least  some  semblance 
of  uniformity  of  plan  and  plot,  incorporating  verbatim  into 
his  work  only  such  passages  as  should  be  consistent  with 
such  purpose.  This  would,  of  course,  necessitate  more 
time  and  labor  ;  but  with  the  end  in  view  this  was  nothing. 
Whether  this  would  prove  more  satisfactory  or  not  the  re- 
sult could  alone  determine.  And  now  another  step  in  the 
pursuance  of  his  plan  must  be  taken. 

The  next  time  he  called  upon  Louise  he  artfully  led  her 
into  a  discussion  upon  poetry,  during  which  he  slyly  inti- 
mated that  he  had  himself  once  courted  the  Muse,  and  con- 
fessed to  having  written  several  poems  and  dainty  little 
sonnets  to  the  object  of  his  affections, — when  he  was  quite 
young  and  didn't  know  any  better  ;  some  of  which,  how- 
ever, had  been  considered  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  columns 
of  a  country  newspaper.  He  furthermore  admitted  that  he 
had  written  several  stories, — he  didn't  know  but  that  one 


154  JACK    HILTON  S   LOVE-AFFAIR. 

of  them  might  be  called  a  regular  novel.  This  had  been 
published  in  a  Sunday  paper,  and  highly  praised  by  a 
number  of  his  friends.  He  hadn't,  of  course,  written  any- 
thing lately,  as  his  professional  duties  required  all  his  time 
and  attention  ;  but  he  had  never  lost  his  early  love  for  the 
poetic  muse,  and  only  regretted  that  he  could  no  longer  be 
her  devoted  slave.  But  perhaps — well,  he  didn't  know — 
he  might  again  yield  to  the  promptings  of  the — the — the 
divine  afflatus,  which  he  felt  at  times  very  strong  upon  him, 
and — and  write  something  more.  He  hadn't,  of  course, 
said  anything  of  all  this  to  her  before,  because — well,  he 
probably  hadn't  thought  it  of  sufficient  importance  ;  or — 
which  was  the  more  likely — because  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  it.  (Deliberate  falsehoods,  every  one  of  them.  But 
Cupid  slyly  winks  and  laughs  at  all  such  subterfuges  ;  and 
the  old  adage  justifies  them.) 

If  Hilton  had  hoped  to  make  a  highly  favorable  impres- 
sion upon  Louise  by  these  tender  little  confidences,  he 
must  have  felt  some  disappointment  at  the  way  in  which  they 
were  received.  She  laughingly  remarked  that  she  supposed 
all  school-boys  wrote  poetry,  and  that  many  other  children 
of  a  larger  growth,  whose  years  should  have  taught  them 
discretion,  were  afflicted  with  the  complaint  known  as  the 
cacoethes  scribendi.  Poor  Hilton  ;  he  was  committing  the 
same  indiscretion  himself,  and  perhaps  only  to  be  laughed 
at  for  all  his  pains, — the  thought  was  dreadfully  discour- 
aging. But  he  tried  to  comfort  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  Louise's  words  had  always  been,  "Jack,  if  you  were 
only  an  author;"  and  with  that  fact  once  established,  she 
might  not,  perhaps,  be  disposed  to  be  over-critical  in  regard 
to  the  quality  or  character  of  his  work.  ' '  Only  an  author." 
Well,  he  would  be  one  ;  and  that  was  all  she  had  wished. 

But  he  now  felt  that  he  must  lead  her  on  to  speak  more 
particularly  upon  the  subject  of  prose  fiction.  He  desired 
— for  reasons  not  at  all  difficult  to  understand — to  ascertain 
the  extent  of  her  reading  in  that  direction,  and  who  were 
her  favorite  novelists. 

"  Louise,"  he  remarked,  in  a  careless  tone,  shortly  after 
he  had  opened  the  discussion,  "  I  suppose  you  don't  care 
much  about  old-fashioned  novels  ;  those,  I  mean,  which 
were  written  about  a  hundred  years  ago.     I  know  you  ad- 


JACK    HILTON  S    LOVE-AFFAIR.  155 

mire  sentiment,  spirited  action,  romantic  situations,  and  all 
that,  but  then,  of  course,  you  would  never  think  of  read- 
ing such  antiquated  stuff  as  'The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,' 
'The  Italian,'  or  'Clarissa  Harlowe,'  or  books  of  that 
sort." 

"'The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,' "  replied  Louise,  "was 
my  especial  delight  when  I  was  a  child  ;  and  you  may 
laugh,  but  I  could  read  it  even  now,  though  I  remember 
nearly  every  word  of  it. ' ' 

Poor  Hilton  ;  he  didn't  feel  much  like  laughing.  No  ; 
anything  but  that.  He  had  that  very  morning  incorporated 
nearly  an  entire  chapter  of  that  work  into  his  own  novel. 

"And  the  others,  Louise,"  stammered  Hilton,  "the — 
the — 'Clarissa  Harlowe,'  'The  Italian,'  or  'Sir  Charles 
Grandison,'  or — or " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Louise,  "I  have  read  them  all;  some 
of  them  twice  over.  In  fact,  there  are  very  few  modern 
novels  I  care  at  all  about.  Especially  these  so-called  real- 
istic novels  ;  those  of  Howells  and  James,  for  instance,  I 
think  dreadfully  insipid.  We  don't  care  for  reading  about 
people  whom  one  may  meet  in  the  street  every  day.  I 
don't  take  the  slightest  interest  in  the  sayings  or  doings  of 
such  ordinary,  humdrum  folks." 

"No;  certainly  not,"  said  Hilton,  brightening  up  a 
little;  "neither  do  I.  Your  tastes  are  more  for  the  ro- 
mantic and  the  heroic  ;  the— the  love  and  glory  style.  But, 
of  course,  Louise,  you  have  quite  forgotten  all  about  those 
stories,  or  most  of  them,  which — which  charmed  your 
youth.  Indeed,  who  could  remember  anything  in  novels 
that  were  spun  out  into  six  or  a  dozen  volumes  ?' ' 

"  I  am  happily  blessed  with  a  very  good  memory,"  she 
replied,  ' '  and  generally  remember  nearly  all  of  what  I  read. 
Those  books,  I  mean,  which  have  particularly  interested 
me." 

Hilton  wished  in  the  very  depths  of  his  soul  that  Nature 
had  been  less  lavish  of  her  gifts — the  one  at  least  of  which 
she  had  spoken — when  dealing  with  Louise.  But,  despite 
these  discouragements,  he  determined  to  persevere  to  the 
bitter  end.  His  work  had  now  progressed  too  far  for  him 
to  entertain,  for  a  moment,  a  thought  of  abandoning  it. 
But  what  if,  after  all,  he  should  fail  to  find  a  publisher  for 


156  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

it?  Even  should  Louise  approve  his  work,  and  reward 
him  with  her  sweetest  smiles,  and  warmest  words  of  praise 
and  encouragement,  and  even  extol  his  genius,  what  kind 
of  opinion  might  she  not  be  induced  to  entertain,  upon 
sober  second  thoughts,  of  a  writer  who  could  find  no  pub- 
lisher sufficiently  impressed  with  the  merits  of  his  work  to 
introduce  it  to  the  public?  In  that  case,  could  he  claim  to 
be  an  author  at  all  ?  And  then  all  his  labor  would  go  for 
nothing.  He  also  began  to  harbor  a  suspicion  that  he  had 
possibly,  in  the  first  exuberance  of  his  feelings,  allowed 
himself  to  indulge  in  too  roseate  and  hopeful  a  view  of  the 
final  issue  of  his  scheme.  And  the  mere  idea  of  writing  a 
novel,  at  least  forty-two  chapters  long,  hunting  up  a  pub- 
lisher, and  getting  his  book  out,  all  within  a  month's  time, 
now  struck  him  as  being  so  supremely  absurd  that  he  could 
hardly  resist  the  conviction  that  he  had  made  an  egregious 
fool  of  himself  But  these  various  reflections  he  did  not 
suffer  to  dampen  in  the  least  the  ardor  of  his  pursuit.  He 
would  still  persevere,  for  his  happiness  and  peace  of  mind 
were  so  deeply  involved  in  the  stake  at  issue  that  he  could 
not  for  a  moment  think  of  desisting  from  his  purpose.  And 
Fate — so  he  flattered  himself — had  decreed  that  he  must 
go  on  to  final  triumph  or  defeat. 

He  derived,  moreover,  as  time  went,  renewed  hope  and 
encouragement  from  thinking  that  he  could  perceive  a 
marked  change  in  Louise.  She  appeared  more  glad  to  see 
him  ;  to  derive  greater  pleasure  from  his  society,  and  to  be 
more  uniformly  gracious  in  her  manner  towards  him  ; 
though,  apparently,  she  entertained  no  suspicion  of  the 
real  motive  that  actuated  him.  Once,  when  recalling  those 
early  courtings  of  the  Muse,  the  imaginary  juvenile  efforts, 
of  which  he  had  made  previous  confession,  he  came  very 
near  betraying  his  secret.  ' '  What  would  you  think, 
Louise,"  he  had  said,  with  a  laugh,  "if  I  should  turn  au- 
thor again  ?  You  know  you  have  often  expressed  the  wish 
that  I  were  one." 

"What  would  I  think.  Jack?"  she  replied,  laughing 
herself.  ' '  I  fear  that  I  should  be  compelled  to  think,  and 
also  to  say,  that  you  had  not  mistaken  your  calling.  That 
the  profession  of  arms  was  the  proper  sphere  for  the  dis- 
play of  your  activities,  and  that  you  were  far  better  qualified 


JACK   HILTON'S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  157 

to  achieve  distinction  upon  the  field  of  Mars  than  in  futile 
dalliance  with  the  Muse  in  the  courts  of  poesy." 

"And  yet,  Louise,"  said  Hilton,  earnestly,  "you  know 
that  distinguished  soldiers  have  achieved  fame  as  authors. 
I  could  cite  several  who  have  gained  brilliant  reputations 

from  the  books  they  have  written.     And  why  not ?" 

But  he  would  say  no  more.  The  time  had  not  yet  come  for 
him  to  burst  upon  the  astonished  and  delighted  Louise  in 
the  full  splendor  of  a  literary  glory  that  was  destined  to 
throw  even  the  illustrious  author  of  a  "  Ben  Hur' '  into  the 
shade. 

His  friend  Charlie  Levison  had  called  once  or  twice,  but 
he  had  found  Hilton  entirely  too  much  engrossed  with  his 
work  and  impressed  with  the  importance  of  every  moment 
he  could  devote  to  it  to  waste  any  time  in  social  amenities  ; 
so  his  visits  had  been  very  brief 

"Remember,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  on  leaving  him  one 
morning,  "one  week  more  and  the  month  will  be  up. 
Within  this  time  your  book  must  appear. ' ' 

"  I  said  in  the  hands  of  a  publisher  within  a  month,"  re- 
sponded Hilton. 

"No,  you  didn't,"  said  Levison.  "It  is  evident  you 
are  trying  to  hedge. ' ' 

"It  can't  be  done,"  said  Hilton.  "We  will  have  to 
call  it  that." 

"I  won't  accept  the  amendment,"  Levison  replied,  with 
a  laugh.      "  The  original  bet  must  stand." 

"All  right ;  but  the  time  isn't  up  yet.  When  it  is,  we'll 
talk  about  it.  Drop  in  one  week  from  to-day,  and  you 
shall  hear  what  I  have  written." 

Under  the  stimulus  of  his  all-absorbing  passion,  Hilton 
had  proved  a  most  indefatigable  worker.  Early  and  late 
he  labored  away  at  his  task,  and  in  time  had  the  satisfac- 
tion to  behold  his  novel  assuming  quite  formidable  di- 
mensions. But  his  work  had  been  by  no  means  entirely 
manual.  Often  he  would  lay  his  pen  down  and  wrestle 
mentally  with  some  knotty  problem  ;  and  they  were  neither 
few  nor  easy  of  solution.  Had  he  undertaken,  indeed,  an 
altogether  original  composition,  he  might  have  found  his 
work  much  less  difficult.  He  believed,  or  willingly  per- 
suaded himself  into  the  belief,  however,  that  he  had  main- 


158  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

tained  a  sufficient  consistency  and  thread  of  connection 
throughout  his  story,  which,  as  a  set  task,  the  most  inge- 
nious and  experienced  author  would,  no  doubt,  have  pro- 
nounced to  be  simply  impossible.  But  his  method  was 
peculiarly  his  own,  and  if  the  result  should  prove  to  be  not 
altogether  what  he  had  hoped  for,  he  could  console  himself 
at  least  with  the  reflection  that  it  was  not  so  from  his  having 
failed  to  do  his  very  best  under  the  circumstances.  He 
knew  also  that  authors  had  sometimes  made  curious  mis- 
takes ;  and  if  he  made  a  few  more  than  they  had,  he  could 
at  least  plead  some  distinguished  precedents.  Besides,  he 
was  quite  a  young  author  ;  it  was  his  maiden  effort  ;  the 
public  and  the  critics  would  be  more  lenient  on  that  account, 
and  not  disposed  to  judge  him  too  harshly. 

And  what  if  he  should  at  first  fail  to  find  a  publisher  for 
his  story  ?  Would  he  not  but  undergo  the  experience  of 
numberless  other  authors  whose  merits  the  publishers, 
strangely  blind  to  their  own  interests,  either  could  or  would 
not  see  ;  and  had  not  some  of  these  authors,  shamefully 
neglected  at  first  and  often  contemptuously  refused  even  a 
hearing,  afterwards  risen  to  the  full  noontide  splendor  of 
literary  fame? 

And  again,  what  if  his  remuneration  should  be  small? 
Did  not  Milton  receive  but  a  paltry  ten  pounds  for  his  im- 
mortal epic  ;  and  others  who  might  be  named,  the  scant 
recognition  of  whose  merits,  pecuniarily  considered,  was 
far  below  their  just  deserts  ?  Poor  Hilton  !  he  had  indulged 
in  a  bright  and  happy  dream  ;  and,  as  in  other  cases, 
was  he,  perhaps,  only  destined  to  an  early  and  bitter 
awakening  ? 

One  fear  had  troubled  him  at  times,  which  was  that  he 
might  be  ordered  to  join  his  regiment  before  he  had  com- 
pleted his  work,  in  which  case  his  project  would  have  to  be 
indefinitely  postponed. 

But  as  the  days  went  by  without  this  apprehension  being- 
realized,  and  he  had  nearly  ended  his  sixth  week  of  labor, 
he  now  felt  entirely  confident  that  he  would  have  sufficient 
time  to  finish  it.  And  in  a  day  or  two  more  this  would  be 
accomplished. 


JACK    HILTON  S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  I59 

in. 

The  last  word  had  been  written.  His  magnum  opus — 
the  crowning'  triumph  of  six  weeks'  unremitting  labor — 
was  finished,  and  Hilton  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
with  a  profound  sigh  of  relief  Never,  perhaps,  did  author 
view  with  fonder  hope  or  brighter  anticipation  his  first 
literary  offspring  than  did  he  the  goodly  piles  of  manu- 
script that  lay  before  him  ;  and  to-night — he  trembled  at 
the  thought — would  he  know  whether  that  hope  was  to  be 
realized  or  cruelly  disappointed,  and  melt  away,  like  the 
baseless  fabric  of  a  vision,  into  thin  air. 

Levison  called  upon  him,  by  appointment,  in  the  morn- 
ing to  hear  portions  of  his  story  read,  for  Hilton  was  de- 
sirous of  first  obtaining  his  friend's  opinion,  and  of  noting 
the  impression  that  it  made  upon  him.  So  lighting  their 
cigars  and  seating  themselves  comfortably  in  their  chairs, 
Hilton  with  a  markedly  sober  and  serious  expression,  and 
Levison  with  a  highly  amused  and  expectant  look,  as  if 
anticipating  a  rare  treat,  the  former  gathered  together  a 
number  of  the  loose  sheets  of  his  manuscript  and  arranged 
them  in  order  preparatory  to  reading. 

"I  suppose  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  where  you 
begin,"  remarked  Levison. 

"  I  will  give  you  a  number  of  extracts,"  said  Hilton, 
"You  don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  read  the  whole  thing 
through  to  you,  do  you?" 

Seeing  that  his  friend  was,  apparently,  in  no  mood  for 
joking,  Levison  tried  hard  to  assume  a  serious  air,  but  his 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  getting  for  a  moment  the  better  of 
him,  he  could  not  refrain  from  saying  in  a  slightly  depre- 
catory tone,  "I  hope  not,  indeed,  old  fellow.  But  begin 
where  you  please,"  he  added.  "As  the  thing  has  neither 
head  nor  tail  to  it — a  sort  of  nondescript  monster,  you 
know — it  makes  no  kind  of  difference,  of  course." 

' '  The  chapters  are  necessarily  somewhat  short, ' '  said 
Hilton,  not  noticing  his  friend's  slyly  humorous  thrust, 
"  on  account  of  the  extent  of  ground  I  had  to  cover  ;  but  I 
will  begin  with  these  two,  which  are  the  longest." 

As  the  reading  progressed,  Levison  tried  hard  not  to 
laugh.    He  would,  perhaps,  have  found  it  difficult  to  say  which 


i6o  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

amused  him  most,  Hilton's  perfectly  serious  and  earnest 
manner,  or  the  highly  ludicrous  character  of  the  matter  to 
which  he  listened.  He  had  to  pinch  himself  severely,  on 
the  sly,  several  times  in  order  to  maintain  a  becomingly 
solemn  expression  and  to  manifest  a  (literally)  painful  in- 
terest in  those  passages  which  were  intended  to  be  es- 
pecially pathetic  and  soul-harrowing,  and  thus  repress  any 
tendency  to  a  risibility  that  otherwise  he  might  have 
found  it  impossible  not  to  betray.  As  an  offset  to  this, 
however,  he  relieved  himself  by  giving  full  vent  to  his 
mirth  over  passages  of  a  designedly  ludicrous  nature  ; 
though  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  tell  which  one  in- 
deed of  those  he  had  heard  read  might  not  have  been  justly 
entitled  to  such  a  character. 

When  Hilton  had  finished,  Levison  exclaimed,  "Capi- 
tal !  First  rate  !  Couldn't  have  done  better  myself  But 
it  does  seem  a  little  strange  now,  doesn't  it,  that  the  wicked 
old  Lord  Melville,  who  was  so  unmistakably  murdered  by 
those  four  ruffians  at  the  instigation  of  his  much-abused 
and  long-suffering  old  wife, — so  unquestionably  dead  and 
buried, — should  have  turned  up  alive  and  smiling  in  the 
next  chapter  as  the  husband  of  the  youthful  and  virtuous 
Ethelinda,  and  who  was  old  enough  to  be  her  great-grand- 
father?" 

"  I  may  have  got  mixed  up  a  little  in  some  places,"  re- 
plied Hilton.  "But  you  know  such  discrepancies  appear 
sometimes  in  novels  ;  in  fact,  in  the  works  of  nearly  all 
writers.     None  are  infallible." 

' '  By  the  way,  what  is  the  title  of  your  book  ?' '  asked 
Levison. 

"The  title?  By  Jove  !  I  never  thought  about  that," 
exclaimed  Hilton.  "  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it.  Let  me 
see " 

"Why  not,"  suggested  his  friend,  "  as  your  novel  is  of 
a  sort  of  nondescript  character,  you  know,  take  a  hint  from 
Wilkie  Collins,  and  call  it  No  Name." 

"  Not  original ;  besides  being  altogether  too  prosaic." 

"I  should  hardly  suppose,"  observed  Levison,  in  a 
slightly  humorous  tone,  ' '  that  such  a  trifling  little  matter 
as  a  lack  of  originality  would  trouble  you  very  much." 

"  I  have  it !"  cried  Hilton,  as  if  illuminated  by  a  sudden 


JACK  Hilton's  love-affair.  i6i 

ray  of  inspiration.  "  I  will  call  it  Love  and  Glory.  That 
will  catch  Louise's  fancy  right  off." 

"Well,"  said  his  friend,  rising  from  his  seat,  "I  have 
not  the  slightest  doubt  that  your  novel  will  make  a  marked 
impression  upon  her.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  hadn't  you 
better  nuriiber  your  pages  ?  You  may  get  them  mixed  up, 
and  that,  you  know,  might  prove — confusion  worse  con- 
founded. But  I  must  be  off.  If  agreeable  to  you  I  will 
drop  in  to-morrow  to  learn  the  result.  And,"  he  added, 
pausing  a  moment  after  he  had  opened  the  door,  ' '  I  be- 
lieve it  was — wasn't  it — in  one  month's  time,  and  a  hundred 
to  fifty?     Good-by." 

But  Hilton  was  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of  reading  his 
story  to  Louise  that  night.  Levison's  prediction  of  the 
possible  consequence  of  his  friend's  having  neglected  to 
number  his  pages  had  unfortunately  come  true  ;  for  in  col- 
lecting the  loose  sheets  together  he  had  found  them  so 
badly  mixed  up  (though  Levison  would  probably  have  told 
him,  in  his  aggravatingly  humorous  way,  that  could  have 
made  no  possible  kind  of  difference)  that  it  required  the  re- 
mainder of  that  and  the  greater  part  of  the  next  day  to 
bring  order  out  of  chaos,  which  was  attended  with  about  as 
•much  difficulty  as  a  novice  in  the  art  would  experience 
from  his  first  attempt  to  put  together  the  various  ingeni- 
ously-constructed pieces  of  a  Chinese  puzzle.  He  finished 
his  task  at  last,  however,  and  having  numbered  and  divided 
the  sheets  into  several  separate  packages,  and  thus  duly 
prepared,  he  took  his  way  to  the  home  of  Louise. 

He  found  her  seated  in  the  library,  and,  fortunately, 
alone.  She  was  writing  at  a  small  table  in  one  corner,  with 
an  open  book  lying  before  her,  but  rose  upon  Hilton's  en- 
trance, and  gave  him  a  cordial  welcome.  She  appeared, 
indeed,  to  be  in  an  especially  gracious  mood,  which  he  was 
disposed  to  regard  as  a  happy  augury.  He  wanted  to 
break  the  ice  as  soon  as  possible  and  take  the  first  plunge  ; 
but  he  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  begin. 

"  Composing  a  poem,  Louise  ?"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  ob- 
serving the  nature  of  her  occupation. 

"A  mere  trifle  that  I  have  just  dashed  oflf,"  she  replied. 
"It  is  a  translation  of  an  Italian  love-song,  or  serenade. 
You  shall  hear  it,  and  give  me  your  opinion  of  it."  She 
I  14* 


r62  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

took  the  paper  from  the  table,  and  read,  in  a  clear,  full, 
musical  voice,  as  follows  : 

"  As  on  the  dusky  brow  of  night 
One  soHtary  gem 
Pales  with  its  rays  each  lesser  light 
In  her  broad  diadem, 

"  So  come  thou  forth,  my  soul's  desire  ! 
And  thy  bright  eye  of  love 
Shall  shame  the  ineffectual  fire 
Of  thf^se  dim  orbs  above. 

"As  the  sweet  moon,  with  modest  gaze 
Upon  the  limpid  stream, 
Beholds  within  its  liquid  rays 
Her  own  reflected  beam, 

"So  thou,  my  star,  serene  and  fair  ! 
Shalt  view  within  this  breast, 
In  brighter  rays  reflected  there, 
Thine  image  deep  impressed. 

"  To  thee  I  now  attune  my  lute, 
My  pleading  voice  I  raise  ; 
Surely  thine  own  will  not  be  mute 
My  song  to  blame,  or  praise. 

"  I  do  but  ask  a  word  of  thee, 
A  whisper,  or  a  sigh  ; 
If  it  breathe  not  of  love  for  me, 
Then,  hapless,  I  shall  die." 

"Beautiful !  Exquisite  !"  exclaimed  Hilton,  enthusiasti- 
cally. "Such  tender  sentiment!  Such  melting  pathos! 
And  now,  Louise,"  he  added,  in  a  slightly  hesitating  voice, 
' '  I  should  like  to — to — have  you  listen  to  a — a  composition 
of  mine." 

"  I  should  be  delighted  to,  I'm  sure,"  she  responded, 
graciously,  eying  with  a  partly  curious  and  amused  look 
the  several  packages  of  manuscript  of  which  Hilton  now 
divested  his  pockets  and  laid  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room. 

"  What  may  be  the  subject  and  title  of  your  poem  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  It  is  not  a  poem,"  he  replied,  "  but  a  novel,  entitled 
Love  and  Glory.     And  before  I  place  it  in  the  hands  of  a 


JACK  Hilton's  love-affair.  163 

publisher  I  wish  you  to  hear  it,  and  offer  such  suggestions, 
by  way  of  improvement,  as  you  may  think  advisable." 

The  idea  of  Hilton's  appearing  in  the  role  of  an  author 
afforded  Louise  not  a  little  amusement.  ' '  You  have  kept 
your  secret  well,  Jack,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  have  sought  my  valuable  advice  while 
at  work  upon  your  novel.  It  might  have  saved  you  some 
trouble." 

' '  The  truth  is,  Louise,  I  wanted  to — to  give  you  a  little 
surprise. ' ' 

"  You  have  certainly  done  that,"  she  observed,  with  a 
laugh,  "for  I  never  should  have  thought  that  you,  who — 
but  1  won't  begin  to  criticise  you  before  I  have  heard  your 
story. ' ' 

"  I  want  your  candid  opinion,  Louise.  And  I  hope  you 
will  not  allow  your  native  sense  of  politeness  to  get  the 
better  of  your  judgment." 

' '  You  need  have  no  fear  of  that ;  for  I  assure  you  that 
you  will  find  me  a  most  impartial  critic." 

She  pushed  her  book  and  writing  materials  to  one  side  of 
the  table,  and  reclining  comfortably  back  in  her  chair,  waited 
for  Hilton  to  begin. 

He  picked  up  one  of  the  packages,  untied  it,  and  after 
glancing  over  the  pages  to  see  that  it  was  the  right  one, 
began  to  read  in  a  clear,  steady  voice,  Louise  meanwhile 
maintaining  an  air  of  close  attention  and  an  unbroken 
silence. 

The  first  chapter  contained  a  somewhat  elaborate  descrip- 
tion of  an  ancient  English  baronial  hall  of  the  time  of  James 
the  First,  which  he  had  copied  verbatim  out  of  an  old  novel. 
The  second  was  devoted  to  an  account  of  the  appearance, 
manners,  and  habits  of  life  of  its  noble  proprietor,  the  Baron 
of  Broadlands,  his  two  lovely  and  accomplished  daughters, 
the  ladies  Elfrida  and  Ethelinda,  the  names  alone  being 
changed,  and  their  respective  lovers,  also  purloined  from 
the  same  source  ;  and  the  third  gave  a  description  of  a 
grand  tournament  gotten  up  by  the  aforesaid  lovers  for 
the  especial  delectation  of  their  respective  mistresses,  for 
which  he  had  drawn  heavily  from  "  Ivanhoe,"  making 
only  such  changes  as  seemed  advisable,  but  into  which 
he  had  committed  the  anachronism  of  introducing  as  the 


164  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

victor  a  valiant  knight  and  trusty  follower  of  Richard  the 
First,' — the  incidents  of  his  story  being  supposed  to  occur 
within  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century, — retaining, 
even  through  inadvertency,  his  very  name. 

All  had  been  plain  sailing  up  to  this  point ;  but  in  the 
fourth  chapter  the  complications  commenced,  and  the  plot 
began,  literally,  to  thicken.  The  scene  changed  to  a  lonely 
and  ruinous  old  tower  on  the  Rhine,  in  one  of  whose  upper 
rooms  sat  a  dark-visaged  and  repulsive-looking  man  deeply 
brooding  over  some  wrong  he  had  suffered,  in  some  unex- 
plained way  connected  with  the  Baron  of  Broadlands,  and 
in  whose  blood  he  very  audibly  and  ferociously  expressed 
his  intention  of  imbruing  his  hands.  Several  times,  indeed, 
he  breathed  forth  slaughter  and  destruction  upon  the  whole 
family,  including  the  lovers,  and  devoted  to  irremediable 
ruin  the  baron's  entire  fortune  and  estates. 

Leaving  him  to  his  gloomy  meditations  and  sanguinary 
resolves,  the  reader  was  now  transported,  with  all  the  ease 
and  celerity  of  the  enchanted  carpet  in  the  story,  to  a  wild 
and  desolate  moor  in  Yorkshire  ;  and  there  suddenly  appears 
upon  the  scene  an  honest  old  farmer,  one  Obadiah  Dumbe- 
dykes  ;  though  whence  he  came,  or  for  what  purpose,  or 
why,  indeed,  he  should  have  come  at  all,  is  not  made  appar- 
ent. He  is  first  seen  wending  his  way  slowly  and  thought- 
fully over  the  moor,  pausing  at  times,  sighing  deeply,  and 
occasionally  shedding  a  tear,  and  mumbling  to  himself. 
"  He  was  thinking,"  to  quote  the  words  of  the  novel  as 
Hilton  read,  "  of  that  luckless  morning  when  he  discovered 
at  the  bottom  of  his  well,  as  he  supposed,  the  gory  head 
and  one  of  the  fingers  of  the  Lady  Blanche  Melville,  who 
was  barbarously  murdered  by  her  husband  in  an  uncontrol- 
lable fit  of  passion,  and  who  afterwards  cut  her  up  into 
small  pieces  and  distributed  her  promiscuously  about  the 
neighborhood  ;  but  who,  on  a  closer  examination,  discov- 
ered them  to  be  the  head  and  finger  of  his  own  daughter, 
who  had  eloped  from  the  paternal  roof  twenty  years  before 
with  some  gay  Lothario,  and  of  whom  nothing  had  ever 
been  heard  until  the  grief-stricken  father  had  thus  brought 
to  light  the  ghastly  remnants  of  his  long-lost  and  beloved 
child." 

Up  to  this  time  Louise  had  preserved  strict  silence  ;  but 


JACK   HILTON'S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  165 

here,  not  a  little  to  Hilton's  astonishment  and  discomfiture, 
she  broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 

He  had  regarded  this  as  one  of  his  most  touching  and 
pathetic  passages,  and  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  little 
nettled,  to  say  the  least,  at  the  way  in  which  it  was  re- 
ceived. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  that's  funny,"  he  remarked. 

"  Awfully,"  she  replied.  "  But  forgive  me,  Jack,"  she 
added,  in  a  tone  of  contrition.  "  I  promise  not  to  offend 
again.     But,  how  did  those  things  get  into  the  well?" 

"That's  for  you  to  surmise.  You  don't  suppose  an 
author  is  bound  to  explain  everything,  and  leave  nothing 
to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  ?  If  he  did,  what  would 
become  of  all  the  mysteries  in  the  story  ?' ' 

Hilton  resumed  his  reading,  and  now  entered  upon  his 
fifth  chapter,  in  which,  after  disposing  of  Obadiah  Dumbe- 
dykes  by  making  him  disappear  as  mysteriously  as  he  had 
come,  he  returns  again  to  the  baronial  hall  of  Broadlands. 

But  a  sad  change  had  come  over  the  fortunes  of  some  of 
its  inmates.  The  fair  Ethelinda  is  sorely  persecuted  by  the 
attentions  of  the  old  and  wicked,  but  immensely  rich.  Lord 
Melville,  who,  unknown  to  her,  has  a  wife  living  in  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  country.  Her  lover  has  been  waylaid  and 
carried  off  none  know  whither,  though  more  than  sus- 
pected to  be  the  work  of  agents  of  his  rival,  the  wicked  old 
lord.  The  lover  of  Elfrida  has  also  to  confront  a  rival 
suitor  in  the  person  of  the  Earl  of  Loch  Lomond,  a  young 
Scotch  nobleman,  by  whom,  for  a  gross  insult  offered  to 
him,  he  is  challenged  to  mortal  combat  and  run  through 
the  body,  expiring  shortly  after  in  the  arms  of  his  second. 
After  three  times  endeavoring  unsuccessfully  to  poison  her- 
self, Elfrida  finally  resolves  upon  becoming  a  nun,  and, 
accordingly,  enters  the  convent  of  Saint  Theresa  in  Italy, 
the  Lady  Superior  of  which  happens  to  be  her  maternal 
aunt.  And  here  followed  a  rather  unnecessarily  minute 
description  of  the  convent  itself,  and  the  mode  of  life  of 
its  inmates,  for  which  Hilton  was  indebt^  to  several  solid 
pages  of  * '  The  Abbess. ' ' 

In  the  beginning  of  the  sixth  chapter,  a  stranger  arrives 
at  the  hall  late  one  stormy  night,  and  demands  immediate 
audience  of  the  baron,   mysteriously  intimating  that  his 


i66  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair, 

business  is  of  a  highly  important  nature,  and  will  admit  of 
no  delay.  On  being'  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  baron, 
he  introduces  himself  by  the  name  of  Jean  Gaspard  ;  and, 
from  the  style  of  his  dress,  general  air,  and  the  peculiarly 
sinister  and  forbidding  aspect  of  his  countenance,  has  all 
the  look  of  a  professional  cut-throat.  He  informs  the  baron 
that  he  is  the  possessor  of  a  secret  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance to  him,  in  which  not  only  his  daughter's  happiness, 
but  the  honor  of  his  family,  is  involved.  This  secret  he 
offers  to  sell  to  the  baron  for  a  satisfactory  consideration, 
which  he  names.  But,  considering  the  price  exorbitant, 
his  would-be  purchaser  refuses  to  pay  it,  and  after  wrang- 
ling over  the  matter  some  little  time,  they  compromise  for 
half  the  amount.  He  then  discloses  to  the  baron  the  fact 
that  Lord  Melville,  the  suitor  for  his  daughter's  hand,  al- 
ready has  a  wife  living  in  England  ;  but,  not  doubting  that 
he  must  be  greatly  desirous  of  promoting  so  highly  advan- 
tageous a  match,  pecuniarily  considered,  and  allying  him- 
self, matrimonially,  with  so  illustrious  a  house  as  that  of 
Lord  Melville's,  he  offers  for  a  further  consideration  to  re- 
move the  old  lady  to  the  farthest  wilds  of  Siberia,  or 
through  the  quicker  and  surer  means  of  poison. 

This  proposition  the  baron  receives  in  high  dudgeon. 
His  sense  of  honor  is  outraged,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ordi- 
nary instincts  of  humanity,  and  in  a  sudden  spasm  of 
virtuous  indignation  he  unceremoniously  kicks  his  visitor 
out  of  the  room.  Thus  ignominiously  repulsed,  the  latter 
takes  his  departure,  giving  vent  to  a  frightful  explosion  of 
Gallic  oaths,  and  vowing  dire  vengeance  upon  the  baron 
and  his  entire  family. 

Lord  Melville,  being  confronted  shortly  after  by  the 
baron  with  the  charge  of  being  already  married,  vehe- 
mently denies  it,  and  engages  to  convince  him  of  its  falsity. 
He  takes  leave  of  his  host  for  the  purpose  of  procuring,  as 
he  says,  the  necessary  evidence  to  the  truth  of  his  words, 
but  with  the  secret  intention  of  going  immediately  home 
and  murdering  his  wife  in  cold  blood,  and  thus  removing 
the  obstacle  that  stands  in  the  way  of  the  gratification  of 
his  wishes.  The  old  lady  has  stolen  a  march  upon  him, 
however  ;  for,  having  suffered  long  enough,  she  makes  up 
her  mind,  from  his  brutality  and  infidelities,  she  hires  four 


JACK  Hilton's  love-affair.  167 

ruffians  to  rid  her  of  such  a  monster  ;  and,  in  consequence, 
Lord  Melville,  when  about  two  miles  from  home,  is  waylaid 
and  barbarously  butchered. 


IV. 

"Pardon  me,  Jack,"  said  Louise,  as  he  made  a  pause 
here,  "but — I  don't  quite  understand.  No  doubt  it  is  my 
own  stupidity,  but  I  somehow  got  the  impression  that  Lord 
Melville  had  already  murdered  his  wife.  And — I  should 
like  to  know  whether  this  Jean  Gaspard  is  in  any  way  con- 
nected with  the  man  in  the  tower  on  the  Rhine,  mentioned 
in  a  former  chapter. ' ' 

"I — I  am  afraid,"  replied  Hilton,  seeming  a  little  con- 
fused, ' '  that — that  I  have  misplaced  the  chapters ;  a  simple 
mistake  in  numbering  them,  but  which  I  can  easily  correct." 

"  Or  you  might,"  suggested  Louise,  in  a  slyly  humorous 
tone,  ' '  leave  the  reader  to  infer  that  it  was  a  former  wife 
he  had  murdered. ' ' 

"A  brilliant  idea,  certainly,"  laughed  Hilton,  in  reply, 
"but  I  think  I  had  better  make  the  needed  corrections. 
And,  besides,  I  may  have  got  the  cart  before  the  horse  in 
other  places.  It  would  be  best,  I  think,  to  look  the  story 
carefully  over  before  I  read  any  further. ' ' 

"But,  Jack,  as  Lord  Melville  has  certainly  been  mur- 
dered, and  before  he  had  the  opportunity  of  performing 
the  office  of  executioner  himself,  I  think  you  had  better 
omit  the  fourth  chapter  altogether,  as  your  honest  old 
farmer  Dumbedykes  seems  to  be  a  somewhat  incongruous 
element  in  the  story.  But  read  two  or  three  chapters  more, 
and  we  will  then  adjourn  the  entertainment  to  a  future 
occasion." 

In  compliance  with  her  request  Hilton  read  the  three 
chapters  following.  In  the  first  one  the  abducted  lover  of 
Ethelinda  turns  up  as  the  leader  of  banditti  among  the 
romantic  wilds  of  the  Apennines.  A  description  of  the 
scenery  is  given, — verbatim  from  "  The  Mysteries  of  Udol- 
pho," — followed  by  a  brief  account  of  the  cave  and  habits 


1 68  JACK  Hilton's  love-affair. 

of  life  of  the  robbers.  In  one  of  their  excursions  the  band 
captures  three  or  four  stray  nuns,  who  have  wandered  too 
far  away  from  their  convent  and  become  lost  among  the 
fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  The  leader  is  about  to  appro- 
priate to  himself,  as  his  share  of  the  booty,  the  best-looking 
one  of  the  lot,  when  to  his  astonishment  he  recognizes  in 
her  the  sister  of  his  long-lost  but  still  beloved  Ethelinda. 
Mutual  explanations  follow.  He  learns  of  the  death  of  his 
former  hated  rival, — though  how  she  came  by  the  informa- 
tion does  not  appear, — but  believing  he  has  forever  lost  the 
object  of  his  affections,  he  makes  honorable  love  to  Elfrida, 
and  urges  her  to  become  a  sort  of  Maid  Marian  to  the 
band.  Weary  of  the  confinement  and  dull  routine  of  her 
convent  life,  she  gladly  accedes  to  his  proposals,  and  the 
day  is  set  for  their  wedding. 

But,  unfortunately,  the  old  love  is  still  strong  upon  him. 
He  is  assured  that  Ethelinda  still  lives  ;  that  he  has  nothing 
more  to  fear  from  the  machinations  of  an  all-powerful  rival, 
and  he  is  animated  by  a  new-born  hope  that  she  may  yet 
be  his.  These  reflections,  and  the  overpowering  desire 
awakened  by  them,  gain  at  length  such  complete  mastery 
over  him  that  upon  the  night  preceding  the  day  fixed  for 
his  marriage  he  mysteriously  disappears,  to  the  surprise 
and  consternation  of  his  followers  and  the  grief  and  chagrin 
of  the  deceived  and  abandoned  Elfrida,  who,  rather  than 
return  again  to  her  convent,  accepts  shortly  after  the  offer 
of  the  next  highest  in  command,  and  thus  consoles  herself 
for  the  loss  of  her  treacherous  lover. 

The  next  chapters  give  an  account  of  what  befell  the 
lover  of  Ethelinda  from  the  time  of  his  desertion  of  the 
banditti  and  the  hapless  Elfrida  to  that  of  his  arrival  at  the 
old  Hall  of  Broadlands.  He  performs  prodigies  of  valor, 
rescuing  numerous  distressed  damsels  from  perilous  situa- 
tions ,  liberating  captive  maidens  from  enchanted  castles, 
where  they  have  been  kept  in  confinement  by  wicked  one- 
eyed  ogres  and  ferocious  three-headed  giants  and  other 
chimerical  monsters ;  encounters  and  puts  to  flight  with  his 
single  arm  numberless  bands  of  robbers  who  assail  him  in 
lonely  and  gloomy  forests  ;  slays  two  or  three  dragons 
which  vomit  out  at  him  fire,  smoke,  and  brimstone  ;  and, 
finally,  saves  a  forlorn  and  beautiful  damsel  from  the  hands 


JACK  Hilton's  love-affair.  1.69 

of  an  abhorred  lover,  who  is  carrying  her  off,  by  deftly 
cutting  him  in  two  with  a  single  stroke  of  his  sword.  Her 
beauty  and  distress  having  first  awakened  his  sympathy 
and  compassion,  he  is  soon  sensible  of  a  still  warmer  emo- 
tion arising  within  him,  and  pity  yielding  the  supremacy  to 
love,  he  becomes  hopelessly  enamoured  of  her.  But  he 
thinks  of  Ethelinda,  and  endeavors  to  suppress  his  newly- 
awakened  passion  for  the  beautiful  Ermingarde.  But,  un- 
fortunately, she  reciprocates  his  love,  and  declares  with 
fervent  and  grateful  lips  and  tears  in  her  soft  blue  eyes  that 
she  will  never  leave  her  valiant  and  handsome  dehverer. 
His  various  exploits  prove  him  to  be,  indeed,  a  veritable 
second  Amadis  de  Gaul,  Orontes,  or  Palmerin,  and  like 
the  true  knights-errant  which  they  were,  he  is  still  faithful 
to  his  one,  peerless  dulcinea  ;  and  this  resolution,  he  fears, 
if  persisted  in,  may  necessitate  some  awkward  explanations, 
and  lead  to  yet  more  disagreeable  complications  when 
he  meets  his  mistress  accompanied  by  this  beautiful 
stranger.  He  therefore  tells  her  that  she  must  don  the 
habit  of  a  page,  assigning  another  reason  than  the  true 
one ;  which  she  immediately  proceeds  to  do, — though  as  to 
whence  the  garb  comes  or  by  whom  provided  the  reader  is 
not  enlightened, — and  so  they  travel  on  towards  England, 
where  they  arrive  without  molestation  or  further  adventure 
three  weeks  after.  For  most  of  which  foregoing  particulars 
Hilton  was  indebted  to  an  old  romance  of  chivalry. 

On  reaching  the  Hall  the  lover — whose  name,  by  the 
way,  happens  to  be  Sir  Percy  Wyndham — is  horrified  by 
the  intelligence  that  the  baron  was,  about  a  year  before, 
found  foully  murdered  in  his  bed  one  morning.  His  head 
had  been  cut  off,  the  rest  of  his  body  dismembered,  and 
the  various  limbs  laid  out  upon  the  bed  with  all  the  neat- 
ness and  dexterity  of  some  accomplished  Jack  the  Ripper 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  Ethelinda,  despairing  of  ever 
again  beholding  the  lover  of  her  youth,  had  become  the 
wife  of  a  certain  old  Lord  Merrivale, — Hilton  had  inadver- 
tently written  it  Melville,  but  Levison's  criticism  had  en- 
abled him  to  make  the  correction, — and  upon  seeing  Sir 
Percy  faints  away  in  his  arms  just  as  her  husband  enters 
the  room.  Rage  and  astonishment  at  witnessing  so  un- 
looked-for a  spectacle  takes  full  possession  of  him.  He 
H  15 


lyo  JACK  HILTON'S  LOVE-AFFAIR. 

Storms,  swears,  and  demands  an  instant  explanation  all  in 
one  breath.  Sir  Percy,  equal  to  the  emergency,  declares 
himself  to  be  her  long-lost  brother.  He  gracefully  accepts 
the  explanation,  apologizes  for  the  rudeness  of  his  behavior, 
shakes  the  young  man  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  wel- 
comes him  back  to  England.  But  alas  for  the  fickleness  of 
woman  !  Ethelinda,  at  first  charmed  by  the  youthful  grace 
and  beauty  of  her  lover's  page,  who  is  her  master's  almost 
constant  attendant,  soon  falls  desperately  in  love  with  Er- 
mingarde.  Not  failing  to  notice  Ethelinda' s  somewhat 
changed  manner  towards  him  and  the  apparent  abatement 
in  the  warmth  of  her  love,  and  discovering,  moreover,  that 
she  has  lost  much  of  her  early  beauty,  Sir  Percy  begins  to 
cool  off  himself  The  inevitable  consequence  follows.  He 
soon  transfers  all  his  affections  to  his  page,  and  arranges 
for  a  secret  marriage  with  her,  not  a  little  rejoiced,  indeed, 
at  the  turn  which  affairs  have  taken.  And  here — with  the 
prospect  of  still  greater  complications  in  sight — Hilton 
ended  his  reading. 

Louise  thanked  him  ;  said  she  had  found  his  story  ex- 
tremely amusing,  and  that  as  a  literary  mosaic  it  was 
certainly  without  a  rival. 

"  Literary  mosaic  ?"  What  covert  insinuation  might  she 
design  to  convey  by  those  words  ?  Could  she  more  than 
half  suspect  the  truth?  And  "  extremely  amusing,"  He 
had  intended  his  story  to  be  more  than  merely  amusing  ; 
to  make  it  exciting,  thrilling ;  an  excitant  to  the  higher  and 
nobler  emotions.  And  now  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  if  it  had 
been  a  purely  humorous  work, — it  was  not  a  little  discour- 
aging, certainly.  But  he  screwed  up  enough  courage  to 
say,  "And  now,  Louise,  judging  from  what  you  have  heard 
read  of  the  story,  do  you  feel  competent  to  express  an 
opinion,  and  tell  me  how  you  think  it  will  strike  the  public? 
I  desire  your  candid  opinion." 

With  inward  fear  and  trembling  he  awaited  her  reply  ; 
but  as  she  remained  silent  several  moments — which  he  was 
quick  to  construe  as  a  somewhat  unfavorable  omen — he 
added,  hastily,  ' '  But,  Louise,  perhaps  you  would  prefer 
to  hear  it  all  before  expressing  an  opinion.  And  I  think 
myself  that  would  be  best. ' ' 

Poor  Hilton  !  in  his  gloomy  foreboding  his  feelings  were 


JACK    HILTON'S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  fjl 

not  altogether  unlike  those  which  a  condemned  criminal 
might  be  supposed  to  experience  when  pleading  for  a  brief 
stay  in  the  execution  of  his  sentence. 

"  I  will  act  upon  the  suggestion,"  rephed  Louise,  whose 
keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous  had  been  stimulated  to  an  un- 
wonted degree,  and  who  had  really  found  no  little  enjoy- 
ment in  its  secret  gratification.  ' '  You  may  leave  the 
manuscript,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  have  the  candid 
opinion  that  you  desire."  And  with  this  promise  Hilton 
shortly  after  took  his  leave. 

The  next  evening  but  one — an  unforeseen  detention  had 
prevented  his  earlier  appearance — he  took  his  way  with 
throbbing  heart  and  mingled  emotions  of  hope  and  appre- 
hension to  the  home  of  his  beloved.  She  received  him  in 
the  library  with  all  that  graciousness  of  manner  which  she 
knew  so  well  how  to  assume  upon  occasions,  and  which 
had  the  effect  of  brightening  Hilton  up  a  little,  though  he 
could  not  resist  the  feeling  that  if  the  issue  of  his  suit  was 
to  be  determined  by  the  fate  of  his  story,  he  had  little  if 
anything  to  hope  for. 

But  he  put  a  brave  face  on  the  matter  ;  assumed  a  cheer- 
ful and  even  gay  air,  exchanged  a  number  of  pleasantries 
with  Louise,  and  then  asked  her,  in  a  jocular  manner,  if 
she  was  ready  to  pass  judgment  upon  him  ;  though  the 
poor  fellow,  if  he  had  actually  seen  transcribed  over  her 
door  Dante's  famous  Hues  above  the  portal  of  the  Inferno, 
could  scarcely  have  felt  more  secret  trepidation  and  mis- 
giving. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "I  have  read  your  story  through, 
and  will  now,  as  you  have  requested,  give  you  my  candid 
opinion  of  it.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  painfully  lacking  in 
coherence  and  originality  ;  two  very  serious,  if  not  fatal, 
defects  in  any  work  of  fiction.  But  to  be  more  definite, ' '  — 
her  manner  was  becoming  severe  and  her  tone  icy, — "the 
situations  are  in  the  main  forced,  most  of  the  characters  are 
grotesquely  unnatural  ;  the  language  extremely  stilted,  and 
frequently  disconnected  and  irrelevant, — you  seem,  in  fact, 
to  have  borrowed  isolated  phrases  or  expressions  from  dif- 
ferent sources  and  put  them  into  the  mouths  of  your  own 
characters  without  regard  to  the  proprieties  of  time,  place, 
or  occasion  ;  some  of  which,  indeed,  have  a  very  familiar 


172  JACK   HILTON  S   LOVE-AFFAIR. 

sound  to  me.  You  often  become  so  hopelessly  entangled 
in  the  intricacies  of  your  plot — which  in  some  instances  seem 
to  have  not  the  remotest  connection  with  or  relation  to 
each  other — that  you  mix  up  characters,  events,  times,  and 
places  in  utterly  confusing  and  inextricable  complications. 
Need  I  say  more?  No,  Jack, — stick  to  the  army.  You 
will  never  make  an  author." 

Poor  Hilton  !  the  airy  fabric  of  his  hopes  and  dreams 
had  dissolved  ;  shattered  at  one  blow.  And  by  the  hand 
of  her  who  had  been  its  inspiration. 

By  a  strong  effort,  however,  he  rallied  himself,  laughed, 
admitted  the  undoubted  soundness  of  Louise's  judgment, 
thanked  her  for  her  entire  impartiality,  and  then  carelessly 
remarked  that  he  had,  after  all,  only  indulged  in  composi- 
tion as  a  means  of  whiling  away  the  time  which  might 
otherwise  have  hung  heavily  on  his  hands  ;  that  his  having 
spoken  to  her  about  publishing  it  was,  of  course,  a  mere 
joke,  as  she  must  so  have  understood  it,  for  he  didn't 
suppose  she  thought  him  bereft  of  all  sense.  In  short,  he 
spoke  and  acted  in  a  way  which  would  convey  the  idea  that 
he  considered  the  whole  thing  merely  as  a  temporary  diver- 
sion, and  of  no  real  importance  whatever. 

Louise  smiled,  but  made  no  pointed  comment  in  reply, 
merely  observing,  "  I  hope.  Jack,  you  don't  think  me  too 
severe.     I  only  gave  you,  you  know,  what  you  asked  for." 

"I  am  glad  it  amused  you,  however,  Louise,"  said  Hil- 
ton ;   "I  have  that  satisfaction,  at  all  events." 

He  soon  turned  the  subject, — that  of  literature  seeming 
for  the  moment  to  have  somehow  lost  its  charm  for  him, — 
and  after  conversing  with  her  awhile  upon  different  matters, 
he  bid  her  good-night. 

The  following  morning  Levison  called  upon  his  friend, 
and  found  him  in  his  room,  seated  at  a  table  which  was 
strewn  with  books  and  loose  sheets  of  writing-paper  ;  the 
materials  which  had  served  his  purpose  and  now  become 
useless.  His  visage  was  solemn  and  his  air  grave.  There 
was,  indeed,  an  absent,  far-away  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  he 
were  entirely  unconscious  of  his  immediate  surroundings  ; 
and  it  seemed  to  require  not  a  little  effort  for  him  to  realize 
the  fact  that  his  most  esteemed  friend  and  trusted  confidant, 


JACK    HILTON'S   LOVE-AFFAIR.  173 

Charlie  Levison,  was  standing  before  him,  regarding  him 
with  a  half-amused  and  half-sympathetic  expression.  He 
needed  not  to  ask  the  question  that  was  uppermost  on  his 
lips,  for  he  read  the  answer  in  his  friend's  manner  and  looks. 

"Well,  old  boy,  where' s  your  story?"  he  said,  slapping 
him  on  the  back  to  rouse  him.  He  did  not  want  to  come 
to  the  direct  question  too  abruptly  ;  he  would  approach  it 
by  degrees. 

"In  the  fire  ;  or  as  much  of  it  as  isn't  yet  consumed  is," 
replied  Hilton,  grimly.  "The  fact  is,  Charlie,  I  have  made 
a  confounded  fool  of  myself;  and  that's  all  about  it." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !"  exclaimed  Levison,  with  a  laugh,  "  you'll 
get  over  it.  Try  a  poem  next  time.  You  may  be  more 
successful,  and  have  fairer  sailing  on  that  tack.  But  wake 
up,  old  fellow,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  You're  not  going 
to  withhold  your  confidence  from  me  now,  after  having 
excited  my  curiosity  thus  far  ?' ' 

"  That's  only  fair,  I  suppose  ;  but  please  excuse  me  now, 
Charlie  ;  some  other  time." 

"Well,  Jack,  you  know  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady 
yet.  Take  my  advice  :  try  a  new  tack,  and  trust  to  luck. 
But  why  don't  you  come  to  the  point  at  once,  without  beat- 
ing about  the  bush  so  ?' ' 

"I  may  take  your  advice,"  replied  Hilton,  "and  try  a 
new  tack." 

"The  best  tack  for  you,  my  boy,"  laughed  Levison, 
"would  be  to  tack-le  her  thus  :  My  adorable  Louise,  will 
you  accept  of  the  hand  and  heart  of  your  loving  and  de- 
voted slave.  Lieutenant  John  Randolph  Hilton  ?  A  little 
formal,  perhaps,  but  to  the  point." 

"I  could  never  survive  the  mortification  of  a  refusal," 
said  Hilton.  "  But  I  will  think  over  what  you  have  said, — 
and  in  the  mean  while,  Charlie,  here  is  my — promissory 
note  for  a  hundred  dollars,  payable  when  I  shall  happen  to 
be  in  possession  of  the  requisite  amount  of  funds." 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN. 

It  was  the  season  when  the  snow-caps  of  the  Big  Horn 
range  melt  and  flow  down  into  the  valleys,  forming  icy  tor- 
rents that  wear  the  steep  banks  of  the  ravines  until  not  even 
the  horned  sheep  can  scale  them,  and  swelling  the  streams 
into  impassable  floods  ;  when  the  tender  shoots  of  the 
bufflilo-grass,  newly  pushed  upward  through  the  barren  sod, 
clothe  the  valleys  and  the  slopes  of  the  foot-hills  with  wel- 
come verdure  ;  when  herds  of  buffalo,  and  bands  of  elk  and 
antelope,  emaciated  by  the  hunger  of  the  long  winter,  with 
teeth  worn  and  mouths  cracked  and  bleeding  from  grubbing 
the  sandy  roots  of  the  dead  grass,  swarm  on  the  hill-sides, 
and  graze  from  morning  till  night  without  stopping  for 
breath.  At  this  season  only  the  wolves  and  vultures  prowl 
and  hover  about  despondently,  for  the  bones  of  the  last 
frost-killed  victim  have  been  stripped,  and  the  hunters  have 
not  yet  made  the  annual  descent  upon  the  feeding-ground. 
Nature — the  homely,  barren  Nature  of  the  desert — smiles, 
for  this  is  the  season  which  gives  the  impulse  to  the  pendu- 
lum of  the  years. 

The  Cheyennes,  the  Dakotas,  the  Shoshones,  and  the 
Crows  had  broken  up  their  winter  camps  in  the  shelter  of 
the  mountains  and  were  taking  the  trail,  some  for  the  hunt, 
some  for  war.  If  the  buffalo-robes  were  worn  and  old,  the 
teepee-poles  cracked  and  broken,  the  bows,  arrows,  and 
lariats  almost  expended,  it  was  necessary  to  march  away 
with  the  entire  tribe  to  some  secluded  valley  among  the 
foot-hills,  and  there  by  skill  in  hunting  and  curing  hides  and 
meats  replenish  the  exhausted  supply  and  provide  a  store 
in  advance  for  less  abundant  seasons. 

Only  those  whose  meat  was  not  yet  consumed,  whose 
ponies  where  fat,  and  whose  bows  and  arrows  were  still 
abundant  were  permitted  to  go  forth  on  the  war-trail  in 
paint  and  eagle-feathers  to  add  deeds  of  prowess  to  the  his- 
tory of  the  tribe. 

Before  the  streams  had  begun  to  swell,  in  the  early 
174 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN.  175 

spring  of  this  year,  Gall,  the  chief  of  all  the  Dakotas,  had 
sent  forth  runners  to  the  tribes,  commanding  them  to  as- 
semble upon  the  head-waters  of  the  Greasy  Grass.  Several 
years  of  war,  and  one  remarkable  for  a  scarcity  of  buffalo, 
had  reduced  the  nation  to  the  verge  of  destitution.  An- 
other summer  of  war  would  cost  many  lives,  and  if  it  were 
followed  by  a  winter  without  meat  or  robes,  a  plague  could 
not  be  more  fatal  to  the  population.  A  hunt  for  the  entire 
Dakota  nation  was  therefore  an  urgent  necessity.  He  had 
resolved  to  unite  the  tribes  and  conduct  them  under  his 
own  leadership  to  some  country  west  of  the  Big  Horns  where 
there  was  plenty  of  game, — buffalo,  deer,  antelope,  and  elk, 
— to  some  region  where  Mineaska,  the  white  man,  had  not 
yet  found  an  abiding  place.  Where  to  go  he  knew  not, 
but  in  some  way  the  trail  would  be  shown  to  him. 

Very  slowly  the  tribes  converged  upon  the  appointed 
place.  The  distances  which  separated  the  extreme  ones 
were  wide,  and  many  days  were  necessary  in  which  to  over- 
come them.  From  the  Lower  Yellowstone,  the  Tongue, 
the  Powder,  the  Rosebud,  the  Little  Missouri,  and  the 
branches  of  the  Belle  Fourche  the  slow  columns  lazily  ap- 
proached. The  runners  which  brought  tidings  of  the  start 
of  each  tribe  had  all  come  in,  and  by  summing  their  reports 
Gall  counted  the  number  of  his  people  as  upward  of  six 
thousand.  By  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  June  he  must 
be  ready  to  lead  them  to  the  hunting-grounds.  The  task 
was  serious.  Six  thousand  !  It  would  indeed  be  difficult 
to  provide  game  for  so  great  a  number. 

Among  the  first  to  arrive  was  the  tribe  whose  totem  is 
the  white  wolf, — the  Uncapapas.  One  of  their  number  was  a 
medicine-man  named  Sitting  Bull,  a  sinister,  crafty  fellow, 
celebrated  among  his  own  people  for  the  success  which  at- 
tended his  auguries  concerning  the  finding  of  game.  Many, 
many  summers  had  he  led  the  tribe  upon  the  hunting  trail, 
returning  with  plenty  and  without  encountering  the  enemy. 
He  was  a  dreamer,  and  in  his  dreams  he  claimed  that  the 
Great  Spirit  pointed  out  to  him  whatsoever  he  desired  to 
know.  This  claim  was  accepted  among  the  Uncapapas  as 
a  fact  beyond  question.  On  the  night  of  the  next  full  moon 
after  his  arrival  Gall  summoned  him  to  appear  at  his  lodge 
for  a  medicine  talk. 


176  WAUNA,  THE   WITCH-MAIDEN. 

Just  as  the  red  disk  of  the  moon  was  rising  above  the 
hills  in  the  east,  Sitting  Bull  struck  upon  the  poles  at  the 
entrance  of  the  lodge.  He  wore  the  usual  garb  of  the 
medicine-men, — the  tanned  hide  of  a  buffalo  bull  with  the 
horns  still  intact  on  the  base  of  the  skull,  falling  down  his 
back  from  the  head  to  the  foot ;  a  string  of  grizzly  bears' 
claws  around  the  neck  ;  a  tom-tom  of  stretched  wolf-skin, 
and  a  rattle  made  of  rattlesnakes'  tails  attached  around  the 
border  of  a  wild-cat's  skin,  hanging  at  the  girdle.  He 
stood  upright  and  silent  at  the  door  of  the  lodge  awaiting  a 
response  to  his  knocking. 

"  Enter,  dreamer  !"  commanded  the  war  chief  in  a  stern 
voice. 

The  medicine-man  pushed  aside  the  matting  which  closed 
the  entrance,  and  passing  within,  seated  himself  cross-legged 
facing  the  fire  opposite  the  chief  The  latter  touched  the 
bowl  of  his  peace-pipe  to  the  ground  and  turned  the  stem 
towards  Sitting  Bull.  He  seized  it  and  blew  forth  clouds  of 
smoke  possessing  a  sickeningly  sweet  odor.  No  word  was 
spoken  until  after  several  minutes  the  war  chief  broke  the 
silence. 

"Dreamer,"  he  began,  in  measured  syllables,  "I  am 
told  that  even  in  years  of  scarcity  thou  canst  find  hunting- 
grounds  where  game  is  plenty, — that  thou  hast  spoken 
with  the  Great  Spirit, — and  that  thou  art  a  great  medicine 
chief  among  thy  people.  On  account  of  these  reports  I 
shall  confide  unto  thee  a  great  commission.  I  now  com- 
mand thee  to  lead  my  people,  the  Dakotas,  into  a  land 
where  the  buffalo  cow  is  plenty, — where  the  elk,  the  deer, 
and  the  antelope  have  not  yet  been  cut  down  by  the  hun- 
ters. I  have  called  my  people  together  in  this  valley  with 
their  squaws,  their  papooses,  their  ponies,  and  their  dogs, 
— six  thousand  souls, — and  as  yet  they  know  not  whether 
it  is  for  peace  or  war.  On  the  day  after  the  next  full  moon, 
when  the  sun  is  high  in  the  heavens,  thou  shalt  lead  them 
forth.  From  the  top  of  yon  high  bluff  thou  shalt  send  the 
runners  to  guide  my  people.  Take  with  thee  the  skin  of 
the  white  wolf,  the  emblem  of  thy  tribe.  Let  its  presence 
keep  alive  in  thy  heart  the  memory  of  my  commands.  Go 
forth,  and  may  the  Great  Spirit  direct  thee.  Thou  who 
art  now  the  unknown  dreamer  of  the  Uncapapas  shalt  be- 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN.  I77 

come  the  great  medicine  chief  of  all  the  Dakotas.  If  thy 
skill  endures  the  test,  thy  leadership  shall  prevail  in  war  as 
well  as  in  the  chase.     The  war  chief  has  commanded." 

Sitting  Bull  closed  his  eyes  and  grasped  the  air  as  if  in- 
voking the  aid  of  a  spirit ;  then  he  shook  the  rattle  and 
struck  thrice  upon  the  drum.  He  seized  the  white  wolf- 
skin and  tied  it  about  his  right  arm  above  the  elbow.  The 
war  chief  extended  again  the  stem  of  the  peace-pipe.  He 
placed  it  between  his  lips  and  blew  dense  volumes  of  smoke 
from  his  nostrils  until  the  air  of  the  lodge  was  darkened 
with  it.  Then  extending  his  right  arm  upward  to  its  full 
length,  he  rose,  chanting, — 

' '  Wauna  !  Wauna  !  Priestess  of  the  thunder — the 
woods — the  winds — the  cataracts — the  floods — the  fire — the 
hail !  Queen  of  the  mighty  beasts  of  the  forest — the  moun- 
tain— the  prairie  !     Command  thy  servant !" 

He  crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast  and  bowed  his  head 
as  if  waiting  an  answer  to  his  invocation.  The  fire  leaping 
in  the  centre  of  the  lodge  cast  yellow  phosphorescence  over 
the  hardened  outlines  of  his  countenance.  Fanaticism, 
cruelty,  cunning,  deceit,  had  all  left  their  imprint  there. 
At  length  he  opened  his  eyes  and  extended  his  open  palms 
over  the  head  of  the  war  chief 

' '  Great  chief,  thou  art  already  obeyed.  Sitting  Bull,  the 
dreamer,  thy  servant,  the  obscure  medicine-man  of  the 
Uncapapas,  will  lead  thy  people  into  the  land  of  plenty." 

So  saying,  he  gathered  the  folds  of  his  robe  around  him, 
turned  through  the  opening  of  the  lodge,  leaped  upon  his 
pony,  and  swept  across  the  sea  of  wigwams  to  his  own 
village. 

The  Peak  of  the  Clouds  was  buried  in  the  blackness  of  a 
stormy  night.  Heavy  masses  of  dense  vapor,  carried  by 
the  wind,  were  discharging  their  thunderbolts  against  it, 
shattering  the  giant  firs  and  tumbling  the  rocks  in  ava- 
lanches down  the  steep  sides.  Under  the  fallen  trees 
and  in  the  sheltered  corners  of  the  ravines  the  panthers 
crouched,  trembling  with  fear.  Torrents  of  rain,  washing 
downward  from  the  steep  slopes,  choked  the  water-ways 
of  the  canons,  and  hurled  heavy  logs  against  the  curves  of 
the  rugged  banks  like  projectiles  from  a  catapult. 

In  her  cave,  half-waf  up  the  mountain-side,  dwelt  Wauna, 


178  WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN. 

the  witch-maiden.  As  a  cure  for  the  chill  and  dampness 
of  the  air,  she  had  piled  heavy  fagots  deep  upon  the  fire 
that  burned  in  the  depths  of  the  cavern,  and  had  set  up  on 
each  side  of  the  entrance  a  huge  blazing  knot  of  pitch-pine. 
The  yellow  light  emblazoned  the  shining  points  of  the  walls, 
bringing  them  into  sharper  relief,  relegating  the  depressions 
to  obscurest  blackness.  The  smoke  of  the  burning  fagots, 
borne  by  the  draft  from  the  entrance,  disappeared  into  the 
throat  of  the  dark  recess  which  pierced  the  interior  of  the 
mountain. 

Scattered  promiscuously  over  the  triangular-shaped  floor 
were  heaps  of  rehcs  of  the  hunt  and  war-trail.  Piles  of 
dried  meat,  implements  of  stone,  horn,  and  bone,  saddles, 
moccasins,  bead  ornaments,  bear-,  buffalo-,  and  panther- 
skins  lay  upon  the  floor  without  effort  at  arrangement ;  while 
from  poles  that  rested  against  the  rocky  sides  dangled 
scalps  of  human  hair  and  strings  and  festoons  of  elks'  teeth 
and  grizzly  bears'  claws.  A  raven  perched  near  the  en- 
trance upon  a  pole  laid  horizontally  between  two  uprights  ; 
and  below,  two  coyotes,  a  prairie-dog,  and  a  red  fox  tugged 
fretfully  at  their  leashes.  There  was  abundant  evidence 
that  the  profession  of  sorceress,  oracle,  and  general  man 
ager  of  human  destinies  was  a  profitable  one. 

The  witch-maiden  passed  beyond  the  blazing  pine-knots, 
and  pushing  back  the  tangled  masses  of  her  wiry  hair, 
looked  out  through  the  mouth  of  the  cave  into  the  seething 
tempest  that  swept  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain.  Each 
flash  of  lightning  that  lit  the  slanting  forest  with  its  vivid 
radiance  was  followed  by  rolling  thunder  that  shook  the 
very  rocks.  It  was  not  likely  that  human  beings  could  be 
abroad  in  such  a  storm.     She  shuffled  back  into  the  cave. 

"The  Great  Spirit  speaks  in  the  clouds, — he  is  very 
near,"  she  muttered.  "  I  will  discover  his  will  for  the 
Crow  people, — the  Absaraki." 

She  seized  the  thong  which  bound  the  leg  of  the  raven 
and  drew  it  struggling  down  from  the  perch.  In  front  of 
the  fire  stood  a  flat  slab  of  yellow  stone.  She  knelt  before 
it,  and  drew  from  her  belt  a  sharp,  round-edged  knife  of 
flint.  Then  holding  the  bird  back  downward  on  the  rock, 
she  deftly  cut  out  its  entrails,  taking  care  not  to  sever  them. 
The  raven  flapped  its  wings  violently  and  uttered  harsh, 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN.  I79 

painful  croaks.  Spreading  the  entrails  over  the  surface  of 
the  rock,  she  watched  them  twist  and  turn,  first  into  one 
figure,  then  into  another. 

"The  omen  is  good,"  she  exclaimed.  Then  drawing  an 
arrow  from  a  quiver  on  the  floor,  she  spitted  the  bird  upon 
it  and  held  it,  still  struggling,  in  the  flames  of  the  fire. 
The  flesh  caught  and  burned  quickly  in  the  bright  blaze. 

"  It  is  good,  good.  The  Crows  will  go  upon  the  hunt- 
ing trail  and  will  find  much  game.  They  will  never  fight 
again  with  the  white  men."  She  threw  the  shaft  of  the 
arrow  after  the  burned  carcass  into  the  fire.  ' '  The  Great 
Spirit  speaks  well  in  the  thunder." 

She  was  still  peering  into  the  fire,  watching  the  dissolving 
remnant  of  the  raven,  when  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps 
at  the  entrance  of  the  cavern.  She  rose  quickly  from  her 
knees  and  turned  her  small  beady  eyes  upon  the  intruder. 

"  Back,  back  !"  she  screamed  ;  "  come  not  here  !  Back, 
back — or  die  !' '  She  seized  a  bow  and  fitted  a  poisoned 
arrow  to  the  cord. 

"Stay  thy  hand,  great  Wauna,"  answered  the  dark 
figure  in  the  mouth  of  the  cavern.  "It  is  thy  servant, 
Sitting  Bull.     Peace  be  between  us." 

"Why  come  ye  here  at  such  an  evil  hour?"  asked  the 
witch,  in  quieter  tones,  throwing  the  bow  and  arrow  back 
upon  the  floor.      "Where  are  thy  gifts  and  the  oflering  ?" 

"The  squaw  brings  from  the  valley  two  ponies  laden 
with  the  gifts.  I  left  her  far  behind,  for  I  must  return  be- 
fore the  moon  is  full.  I  come  to  seek  the  will  of  the  Great 
Spirit  for  my  people,  the  Dakotas.  I  must  lead  them  to 
the  hunting-ground  where  the  cow  bufialo  is  plenty.  The 
war  chief  has  sought  my  counsel,  and  into  my  hands  has 
he  given  the  conduct  of  my  people.  Since  last  full  moon, 
through  river,  and  forest,  and  canon,  have  I  struggled  to 
reach  thee,  and  my  body  is  sick  and  my  bones  are  full  of 
pains.  Speak  now  with  the  Great  Spirit,  that  he  may 
watch  over  and  guide  my  people.  See,  now  !  I  have 
brought  thee  Tatonka,  the  white  wolf,  for  an  offering." 

The  medicine-man  drew  from  the  folds  of  his  robe  the 
whelp  of  a  white  wolf  and  placed  it  in  her  hands.  His 
moccasins  were  torn  until  they  scarcely  covered  his  feet, 
and  the  water  ran  down  his  legs  and  stood  in  pools  at  his 


l8o  WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN. 

heels.  He  panted  wearily,  as  if  overcome  with  exhaustion. 
The  rents  in  his  clothing  showed  that  he  had  passed  through 
the  forest  where  there  was  no  trail.  Hunger  and  fatigue 
had  weakened  and  emaciated  his  huge  frame,  yet  his  keen 
eye  had  lost  none  of  its  lustre.  Anxiety  and  eagerness 
shone  from  his  features. 

"Thou  hast  done  well,"  said  the  woman,  attaching  the 
frightened  wolf  to  the  thong  from  which  she  had  released 
the  raven.  "Thy  mission  is  indeed  a  modest  one,  but  it 
shall  be  well  with  thee.  Thou  shalt  thyself  speak  with  the 
Great  Spirit.  The  Wauna  shall  aid  thee.  Thou  shalt  be- 
come a  great  leader  among  thy  people." 

"Aid  thy  servant,  great  Wauna,  that  no  evil  may  befall 
the  tribes.  If  the  mission  be  successful,  then  shall  Sitting 
Bull  become  the  war  chief  of  all  the  Dakotas,  and  thou, 
Wauna,  shall  become  great  among  all  the  people." 

The  woman  fastened  her  snaky  eyes  upon  him  as  if  to 
divine  his  thoughts.  ' '  He  who  would  be  war  chief  must 
endure  pain  and  affliction  without  shrinking  backward," 
5he  said.     "  Show  me  the  scars  of  the  sun-dance." 

"  I  have  none.  Because  I  am  a  medicine-man  I  have 
not  sought  fame  on  the  war- trail." 

"  He  who  would  lead  his  people  in  battle  must  prove 
himself  worthy.     Come — and  flinch  not." 

The  witch-maiden  took  two  long  plaits  of  sinew  having 
hooks  at  each  end  and  threw  them  over  the  horizontal  pole 
that  crossed  the  entrance.  By  means  of  a  sliding  noose 
she  fastened  them  so  that  the  four  hooks  hung  down,  near 
together. 

"  Come  !  Prepare  thyself!  He  who  aspires  to  lead  his 
people  on  the  war-trail  must  prove  himself  worthy." 

He  cast  his  robe  on  the  floor  of  the  cave  and  stood  under 
the  hooks.  His  features  hardened  and  his  muscles  grew 
tense.  The  woman  skilfully  cut  the  skin  of  his  back  and 
breast — two  vertical  slits  over  each — and  slipped  the  hooks 
under  the  ribbons  of  flesh  that  were  released. 

"Now,  free  thyself!"  she  commanded.  "Tear  thyself 
loose  from  the  bondage  of  fear  or  thou  art  no  better  than 
a  squaw.     He  who  would  lead  his  people  must  be  brave." 

The  huge  savage  dropped  his  full  weight  upon  the  hooks 
and  drew  up  his  knees  until  they  touched  his  chest.     Then 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN.  l8l 

he  extended  them  downward  and  raised  himself,  dropping 
again  and  again.  The  Hnes  of  his  face  contracted  and  his 
muscles  stood  out  like  bands  of  iron.  One  by  one  the 
hooks  tore  loose  until  at  length  he  fell  exhausted  at  the  feet 
of  the  Wauna.  Not  a  sound  had  passed  his  lips  to  tell  of 
the  agony  of  the  self-imposed  torture. 

"Well  done,  my  son.  Well  art  thou  fit  to  lead  thy 
people  in  battle.  But  thou  desirest  to  become  a  great 
medicine-chief.  Those  who  would  heal  their  people  must 
prove  themselves  worthy.  Canst  thou  heal  the  bite  of  the 
snake  enemy?     Canst  thou  defy  Natakis?" 

She  retreated  into  the  recess  of  the  cave,  and  returned 
bearing  in  one  hand  a  huge  rattlesnake  and  in  the  other 
several  tufts  of  herbs  bound  together  with  thongs. 

"  Come,  come,"  she  said.  "  Give  thy  finger  to  Natakis. 
Then  from  these  herbs  choose  the  one  which  will  heal  thee." 

The  medicine-man  took  the  herbs  and  drew  forth  a  bunch 
having  long  leafless  stems  with  a  thorny  button  on  the  end. 
He  placed  one  in  his  mouth  and  chewed  it  to  a  paste.  Then 
extending  his  left  forefinger  he  vexed  the  snake  until  it 
buried  its  fangs  in  the  fleshy  part.  Instantly  he  placed  the 
wound  in  his  mouth  and  sucked  the  poison  into  the  pulp 
of  the  herb.  After  a  time  he  withdrew  it  and  held  it  before 
the  Wauna.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  poison  left,  not  even 
a  swelling. 

"Well  done,  my  son,"  chuckled  the  hag.  "Thou  art 
both  brave  and  skilful.  Having  proved  thyself  worthy, 
thou  art  permitted  to  talk  with  the  Great  Spirit," 

She  seized  a  cup  made  from  the  horn  of  a  mountain 
sheep,  filled  it  with  a  curious  green  liquid,  and  placed  it  in 
his  hand. 

"  Now,  drink,"  she  said,  "and  lay  thyself  to  sleep  upon 
these  skins.  In  thy  dreams  the  Great  Spirit  will  appear 
unto  thee." 

The  great  savage  drained  the  cup  and  composed  himself 
upon  the  heap  of  furs.  His  pale  features,  lit  by  the  yellow 
firelight,  assumed  a  hue  that  was  haggard  and  ghastly 
beyond  description.  As  he  lay  there  almost  naked,  the 
impersonation  of  exhausted  animal  determination,  his  frame 
seemed  reduced  to  bones  and  bands  of  sinew. 

When  the  witch-maiden  perceived  that  the  draught  had 

i6 


1 82  WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN. 

produced  unconsciousness,  she  quickly  bound  the  feet  of 
the  wolf  cub,  and,  throwing  it  upon  the  flat  stone  as  she 
had  done  with  the  raven,  proceeded  to  disembowel  it  and 
spread  the  entrails  out  for  inspection.  The  unfortunate 
animal  struggled  vigorously,  but  she  held  it  fast  between 
her  knees  while  the  curving  membranes  twisted  about  upon 
the  stone. 

"  Good,  good  !"  she  screamed.  "The  son  of  the  white 
wolf  is  to  become  great.  He  shall  lead  his  people  into  the 
great  valley  beyond  the  Yellowstone.  He  shall  become  a 
great  chief." 

She  struck  a  blow  upon  the  head  of  the  cub  and  threw  it 
into  the  fire.  The  fat  caught  and  burned  brightly.  Leap- 
ing up,  she  pressed  her  forearms  against  her  sides,  the 
fingers  pointing  downward,  and  hopping  upon  one  foot 
danced  in  a  circle  around  the  fire,  chanting  in  a  monotone, — 

' '  Spirit  of  the  Sun,  appear  !  Speak  with  thy  faithful 
servant." 

This  she  repeated  until  the  last  trace  of  the  wolf's  cub 
had  mingled  with  the  embers  of  the  fire.  Then  ceasing 
from  the  dance,  she  heaped  up  more  fagots  until  the  air 
became  swelteringly  hot.  The  storm  without  had  spent  its 
fury,  and  the  rain  was  pattering  fitfully  upon  the  stones 
and  fallen  trees  near  the  entrance.  The  medicine-man  slept 
heavily.  The  hypnotic  potion  was  not  needed  to  quiet  his 
weary  limbs.  The  woman  sat  down  cross-legged  before 
the  fire,  waiting  for  his  returning  consciousness.  The  twin 
pine-knots  had  long  burned  away,  and  the  firelight  threw 
her  shadow  athwart  the  entrance.  Long  she  sat  thus,  until 
the  morning  broke  over  a  storm-washed  expanse  of  drip- 
ping foliage  and  swollen  streams.  At  last  the  medicine- 
man awoke  and  sat  upright. 

"What  hast  thou  dreamed?"  asked  the  witch-maiden, 
eagerly. 

"Oh,  Wauna,  prophetess  of  the  storms,"  he  answered, 
"worthy  art  thou  of  thine  office!  In  my  dream  I  saw 
wonderful  things.  I  saw  the  horsemen  of  the  white  men 
rushing  among  the  lodges  of  my  people.  They  were  many, 
and  my  people  were  frightened  and  would  have  fled,  but  I 
bore  among  them  the  skin  of  the  white  wolf  and  com- 
manded them  to  turn  and  fight.    Their  hearts  were  strength- 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN,  1 83 

ened  at  the  sight.  They  charged  upon  the  white  men,  and 
drove  them  back,  and  slew  them  to  a  man. ' ' 

"The  omen  is  good,  my  son.  Now  art  thou  rewarded 
for  toihng  through  the  forests,  and  across  the  streams,  and 
up  the  mountain-side  to  seek  the  aid  of  the  Wauna.  Re- 
turn now  to  thy  people,  and  lead  them  to  victory  and  the 
hunting-ground.  Thou  shalt  drive  back  the  white  men 
and  lead  the  Dakotas  into  the  great  valley  beyond  the 
Yellowstone. ' ' 

She  darted  back  into  the  recesses  of  the  cave,  and  re- 
turned with  a  gaunt  bald  eagle  bound  and  hooded  with  a 
piece  of  buckskin.  "Take  with  thee  the  war  eagle,"  she 
said.  "Under  its  wings  shalt  thou  find  victory  for  thy 
people.  Go,  and  let  not  the  waters  hinder  thy  flight.  The 
full  moon  is  near  at  hand." 

He  seized  the  bird  by  the  talons,  and,  throwing  his  robe 
around  him,  sped  out  of  the  cave  and  disappeared  from 
sight  among  the  firs  that  covered  the  mountain-side.  The 
sorceress  peered  after  him,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  bright- 
ness of  the  morning  sun. 

' '  He  must  hasten  or  be  too  late.  The  moon  is  grow- 
ing,— it  shows  in  the  east  when  the  sun  is  high.  Leader 
of  men,  may  the  deer  run  slowly  compared  with  thee." 

In  the  valley  of  the  Greasy  Grass  a  thousand  cone-shaped 
lodges  lifted  their  tattered  shapes  out  of  the  flowering 
border  of  willow  and  wild  rose  that  marked  its  winding 
course.  Twenty  herds  of  ponies  browsed  and  chased  one 
another  on  the  slope  that  ascended  towards  the  foot-hills  of 
the  Big  Horn  range,  wandering  impulsively  this  way  and  that 
under  the  watchful  eyes  of  their  naked  guardians.  Groups 
of  dirty,  ragged  children  were  tumbling  about  in  the  shade 
of  the  bushes  or  mischievously  running  and  hiding  to  escape 
capture  by  their  anxious  squaw  mothers.  Many  of  the 
braves  were  pensively  smoking  in  the  shade  of  the  lodges. 
Others,  more  industrious,  were  sharpening  spear-  and  arrow- 
heads or  mending  their  bows  and  quivers.  The  camp  could 
not  have  presented  a  more  lazy  or  improvident  appearance 
had  it  remained  scattered  still  among  the  winter  sites  in 
the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  The  scarcely  perceptible 
breeze  that  moved  the  leaves  of  the  bushes  was  ineflectual 


184  WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN. 

against  the  enervating  warmth  of  the  June  sun.  Six  thou- 
sand savages,  ignorant  of  the  reason  for  the  mighty  assem- 
blage, were  indifferently  awaiting  the  command  of  the  great 
war  chief  to  move,  they  knew  not  whither. 

Such  was  the  camp  of  the  Dakotas  when  a  lone  horse- 
man appeared  galloping  over  the  crest  of  the  low  hills  that 
descended  from  the  Rosebud  divide  in  the  east.  One  by 
one  the  curious  eyes  of  the  camp  were  turned  upon  him, 
watching  him  as  he  dashed  rapidly  down  the  slope  and 
swam  the  stream.  He  galloped  furiously,  shouting  in- 
quiries to  those  he  passed  on  his  way,  until  he  reached  the 
lodge  of  Gall,  the  war  chief,  where  he  stopped  and  quickly 
entered.  Almost  immediately  they  saw  him  leap  again 
upon  his  tired  pony  and  continue  his  frantic  career  down 
the  stream  among  the  lodges  of  the  lower  villages. 

' '  To  arms  !  To  arms  !  The  white  soldiers  !  Arm  for 
your  lives  !"  he  cried  as  he  swept  on. 

Instantly  the  signals  were  given  to  the  herders.  The 
bands  of  ponies  began  to  circle  and  close  in  upon  their 
leaders, — a  moment  later  they  were  galloping  madly  each 
in  the  direction  of  its  respective  village. 

The  attack  by  the  white  soldiers  was  a  complete  surprise. 
Until  the  cry  of  the  messenger  rung  out  over  the  lazy  camp 
not  a  living  soul  in  all  the  mighty  assembly  had  dreamed 
of  the  dread  presence.  So  rapidly  had  they  moved  to  the 
attack  that  even  the  messenger  had  not  succeeded  in  dis- 
tancing them  by  more  than  an  hour's  ride.  The  braves 
had  barely  time  to  swing  their  quivers  and  array  them- 
selves for  the  fight,  when  a  cloud  of  dust,  rising  behind  a 
curve  in  the  banks  of  the  stream,  announced  the  near 
approach  of  the  enemy.  At  the  sight  the  war-cry  rose, 
and  was  caught  up  from  village  to  village  until  the  air  was 
filled  with  an  agony  of  demoniacal  yells.  Activity  and 
confusion  prevailed  where  only  a  moment  before  all  had 
been  dreamy  quietness.  It  was  like  the  change  wrought 
by  an  earthquake. 

A  cavalry  column  defiled  out  of  a  break  in  the  north 
border  of  hills  that  flanked  the  Greasy  Grass,  and  plunging 
into  the  stream,  crossed  rapidly,  scarcely  breaking  the  trot. 
Soon  they  swung  into  line  of  battle  athwart  the  valley, 
up-stream  from  the  Indian  village,  in  plain  view  of  all,  the 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN.  185 

guidons  fluttering,  and  the  sabres  and  bright  metal  trap- 
pings flashing  in  the  sunlight.  The  braves,  each  mounted 
on  his  fleetest  pony,  armed  with  rifle,  or  lance,  or  bow  and 
arrow,  as  chance  provided,  awaited  the  charge  in  the  edge 
of  the  willows  that  skirted  the  village.  Straight  upon  them 
came  the  battalion  of  horse,  a  long  unbroken  line  swinging 
steadily  towards  them.     It  was  time  to  meet  the  charge. 

The  chiefs  lead  out,  and  wheeling  swiftly  parallel  to  the 
line,  discharged  their  weapons.  The  warriors  followed,  and 
the  sally  produced  its  effect.  The  line  of  cavalry  halted, — 
the  soldiers  dismounted  and  opened  fire  with  their  carbines. 
A  storm  of  arrows  was  the  reply.  The  commander's  heart 
failed  him.  The  line  mounted  and  fell  back,  halted  once 
more,  and  opened  fire.  The  bullets  of  the  whites  were 
deadly.  Already  many  braves  had  fallen,  and  were  being 
borne  to  the  rear  by  their  comrades.  This  time  the  whites 
held  their  ground  ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  turn  them.  In 
the  camp  was  a  wild  chaos  of  confusion.  The  aged  men 
with  the  squaws  and  papooses  were  flying  to  the  hills, 
driving  the  spare  ponies  before  them.  The  sharp  reports 
of  rifle,  screams,  and  yells,  the  neighing  of  horses,  and,  more 
piercing  than  all,  the  shrill  war-cry,  rose  out  of  the  circling, 
struggling  mass  in  the  valley. 

Gall,  the  war  chief,  looked  down  from  an  eminence  upon 
the  waning  fortunes  of  his  braves.  They  could  see  him 
sitting  there  like  a  statue  on  his  long-tailed  white  pony. 
On  his  left  a  frightened  rout  of  women  and  children  was 
crowding  up  into  the  bluffs  ;  in  front,  the  smoke  and  dust 
of  the  battle  ;  on  the  right,  in  the  distance,  a  rising  cloud 
of  dust  gave  warning  of  the  approach  of  another  column 
of  the  white  enemy.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  had  come 
for  him  to  dash  down  and  lead  his  yielding  people,  but 
still  he  sat,  silent  and  grim,  scrutinizing  the  strife  below, 
his  war-bonnet  trailing  to  the  ground,  his  rifle  resting  across 
the  pony's  withers. 

He  alone  saw  the  single  horseman  that  emerged  from  the 
opening  in  the  hills  and  dashed  down  the  slope  towards  the 
scene  of  the  struggle.  It  was  the  medicine-man  of  the  Un- 
capapas.  Sitting  Bull,  horned  like  a  demon  with  the  buffalo 
skull  which  proclaimed  his  intercourse  with  spirits.  The 
white  wolf-skin  flowed  from  his  shoulder,  shining  out  against 

16* 


l86  WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN. 

the  black  robe  that  covered  his  huge  frame  like  an  ermine 
shield.  High  above  his  head  he  bore  the  pinioned  war 
eagle,  the  talisman  of  victory.  Into  the  thick  of  the  fight, 
among  the  astonished  braves,  he  plunged. 

"  Death  to  the  Mineaska  !     Kill !     Kill !"  he  cried. 

The  effect  was  like  magic.  The  war-cry  rose  again  from 
a  thousand  savage  throats,  and  the  braves  bore  down  upon 
the  cavalry  like  vultures  upon  the  dead.  There  was  no  re- 
sisting the  fury  of  the  charge.  The  remaining  horsemen 
turned  and  fled  across  the  stream,  leaving  a  wake  of  killed 
and  wounded.  Upon  each  fallen  body  leaped  a  dozen  war- 
riors to  strip  it  of  clothing  and  scalp.  The  cry  of  victory 
rose  like  a  wail  from  Gehenna.  From  every  drop  of  blood 
spilt  on  that  field  has  sprung  a  thousand  pages  of  his- 
tory. 

Down  the  valley,  among  the  lower  villages,  rushed  the 
medicine-chief,  bearing  aloft  the  living  eagle.  The  war-cry 
followed  the  passage  of  the  mighty  emblem,  and  echoed 
again  from  village  to  village.  The  old  men  and  women, 
frenzied  at  the  change  of  fortune,  turned  back  from  the  hills 
to  join  their  braves  and  unite  in  the  plunder  and  torture. 
Never  was  defeat  of  the  whites  more  unexpected  and  de- 
pressing,— never  victory  of  the  Dakotas  more  complete 
and  thrilling. 

The  sun  was  reddening  in  the  west  when  Gall,  the  war 
chief,  turned  his  white  pony  up  the  trail  that  leads  to  the 
highest  bluff  that  overlooks  the  scene  of  the  battle.  At  the 
summit  he  saw  the  tall  figure  of  the  medicine-man  calmly 
surveying  the  terrible  rejoicings  in  the  valley.  He  still 
bore  the  emblems  which  had  spurred  the  warriors  to  suc- 
cess. His  attitude  was  that  of  the  workman  who  surveys 
a  well-finished  task. 

Gall  dismounted  at  his  side,  and  removing  his  war-bon- 
net, placed  it,  together  with  the  trail-rope  of  the  white 
pony,  in  the  hands  of  the  medicine-chief 

"Sitting  Bull,"  he  said,  haughtily,  "this  day  thou  hast 
led  thy  people  to  a  great  victory.  Henceforth  thou  shalt 
lead  them  in  peace  as  well  as  in  war.  Henceforth  thou  shalt 
be  known  as  chief  of  all  the  Dakotas.  Let  this  spot  receive 
its  name  from  thee.  Release  the  war  eagle,  that  it  may 
tell  the  sun  that  a  chief  has  arisen  who  meets  the  white  man 


WAUNA,  THE  WITCH-MAIDEN.  187 

and  leaves  his  bones  to  whiten  upon  the  prairie.     Surely 
the  Great  Spirit  speaks  in  thee. " 

"Thou  hast  spoken  well,  war  chief,"  answered  Sitting 
Bull.  "  It  is  the  day  of  the  full  moon.  This  night  shall  I 
command  the  tribes  to  move  forth  into  the  great  valley 
beyond  the  Yellowstone.     The  Great  Spirit  has  spoken. ' ' 

From  that  day  until  his  death  Sitting  Bull  guided  the 
destinies  of  the  Sioux.  A  recluse  medicine-squaw  who 
dwelt  in  a  remote  cavern  of  the  Big  Horn  range  near 
Cloud's  Peak  suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  leadership,  by 
interpreting  a  dream  for  him.  His  own  cunning  and  ad- 
dress accomplished  the  rest.  The  story  of  his  visit  to  the 
sorceress  was  related  to  me  by  one  of  his  own  relatives. 


CONYNGHAM  FOXE  AND  THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

At  the  hour  of  nine,  in  the  Hotel  Bellevue,  fronting  Broad 
Street  and  a  frozen  city,  Conyngham  Foxe  was  weighing 
with  much  bitterness  the  advisabihty  of  casting  loose  fore 
and  aft  from  the  social  shore  and  steering  out  alone  into 
regions  unknown  and  beyond  hope  of  succor. 

He  should  have  been  elsewhere.  It  was  the  night  of  the 
Charity  Ball,  and  in  some  way,  through  the  machinations 
of  his  brother's  wife,  Mrs.  Montmorency  Foxe,  and  his 
former  guardian's  wife,  Mrs.  Penn  Gaskill  Williamson,  he 
had  been  selected,  assigned,  and  warned  to  appear  as  escort 
to  Miss  Rittenhouse,  the  heiress  expectant  of  two  millions, 
and  her  mother. 

If  he  had  been  called  upon  to  direct  his  own  hanging 
and  spring  the  drop  himself,  there  might  have  been  some- 
thing in  the  prospect  worth  laughing  at.  But  to  receive 
notice  of  this  high-handed  act  of  ownership  and  superiority 
over  him  from  two  respectable  ladies  who  must  have  ob- 
served long  ago  how  utterly  he  denied  their  prerogatives, 
was  an  ill  too  grievous  for  human  flesh  to  bear. 

They  had  written,  the  two  of  them,  no  doubt, — one  pro- 
viding chirography,  the  other  composition  and  rhetoric, — 

"  Dearest  Conyngham, — It  is  all  arranged.  We  will  leave  our 
house  at  ten-thirty  sharp, — West  Logan  Square.  You  are  to  take  Miss 
Rittenhouse,  and  of  course  her  mother.  Look  your  sweetest,  Cony 
dear,  and  come  early. 

"  Your  loving  sister, 

"LUCRETIA." 

"  Look  your  sweetest," — to  a  man.  Could  anything 
exceed  such  drivelling  inanity  ! 

It  was  time  to  oppose  this  tyranny.  The  end  must  come 
some  time.  Why  not  now  ?  Yet  even  a  shipwrecked 
sailor  in  mid-ocean,  from  clinging  to  his  spar  a  few  hours, 
acquires  an  affection  for  it  not  to  be  overcome  without  ex- 
ertion.    Before  cutting  the  knot  and  sinking  he  is  bound 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND    THE   CHARITY   BALL.        1 89 

to  do  a  little  desperate  thinking.  Conyngham  had  been 
taught  to  dread  social  ostracism  with  the  same  degree  of 
horror  that  a  voyager  entertains  for  the  sea-bottom.  Yet 
for  some  time  past  he  had  been  much  in  doubt  as  to  the 
soundness  of  such  teaching.  There  are  some  things  more 
dreadful  to  suffer  than  others  :  slow  torture  than  death  by 
drowning,  and  social  ostracism  than  social  slavery,  perhaps. 

Conyngham  Foxe  was  the  last  male  of  a  long  line  of 
descent,  which,  tracing  backward  by  way  of  William  Penn, 
touched  Adam.  His  elder  brother,  Montmorency,  having 
married  early,  was  gliding  into  life's  shadow  without  a 
child.  His  sister  also,  being  left  a  widow,  had  no  wayward 
sons  to  regret.  Therefore,  unless  Conyngham  married  and 
perpetuated  the  line,  it  died  forever. 

The  event  of  his  twenty-first  birthday  had  bestowed  upon 
him  a  country  house  surrounded  by  ample  lands  and  a  well- 
filled  barn ;  also  two  hundred  thousand  in  securities  return- 
ing a  liberal  interest.  But  the  preservation  of  the  family 
honor,  although  a  most  laudable  consideration,  was  not,  in 
Conyngham' s  estimation,  comparable  in  any  degree  to  the 
joy  of  squandering  a  competency. 

"If  the  family  name  is  to  be  buried,"  he  used  to  say, 
"we'll  hold  a  king's  wake  over  the  corpse." 

The  wildness  of  his  ways  had  induced  his  sober  Quaker 
friends  to  solemnly  believe  that  he  was  on  the  broad  road 
to  perdition.  They  passed  him  by,  pointing  over  their 
shoulders  with  a  significant  shrug.  His  friends,  however, 
who  knew  the  man  at  heart,  stuck  to  him  with  a  grim  dis- 
regard of  sinister  aspersions  ;  for,  having  been  once  ad- 
mitted to  the  inner  sanctuary  of  his  intimacy,  they  found 
they  could  not  do  less  than  die  for  him. 

In  the  clubs  no  one  doubted  his  standing.  He  had  been 
admitted  promptly  on  becoming  of  age  to  the  Philadelphia, 
the  Racquette,  the  Rabbit,  and  the  Ayrmont  Gun  Club, 
together  with  several  others  of  lesser  mention.  His  most 
grievous  breach  of  rules  had  been  to  enter  the  Philadelphia 
about  nine  one  morning  in  evening  dress  ;  but  the  note  of 
the  secretary,  brought  to  him  just  as  he  was  indulging  an 
eye-opener,  brought  forth  repentance,  apologies,  and  a 
more  faithful  adherence  to  the  proprieties  of  life. 

As  a  sporting  man  his  success  had  been  something  to 


190      CONYNGHAM  FOXE  AND   THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

Stand  aside  and  wonder  at.  He  aided  and  abetted,  held 
stakes,  timed,  and  refereed  in  all  local  set-tos  where  skill 
and  prowess  gave  tone  to  the  affair  ;  he  was  unexcelled  as  a 
wing  shot ;  had  been  barred  from  the  club  pool  tourna- 
ments on  account  of  his  certainty  in  prize-winning  ;  was  a 
Delphic  oracle  at  the  Derby  ;  and  had  even  been  seen 
coming  away  too  near  dawn  from  certain  quiet  sanctuaries 
of  the  green  cloth,  unknown  to  Mayor  Stuart  and  his 
minions. 

Socially,  however,  Conyngham  was  slipping  his  anchors. 
Where  angels  trod  with  deference  he  had  jumped  without  a 
thought, — on  the  toes  of  the  local  society  goddesses.  They 
were  hurt.  They  pouted,  and  vowed  that  by  the  bones  of 
immortal  Penn  they  would  wipe  his  name  forever  from  their 
lists  ;  but  some  way  he  repented  not  and  gave  no  promise 
of  reform.  Then  a  few  ventured  to  suggest  that,  for  some- 
thing they  felt  was  in  him,  they  ought  to  bear  with  him 
awhile,  and  endeavor  to  rescue  him  from  the  oblivion  into 
which  they  felt  this  headlong  downward  career  must  surely 
plunge  him. 

He  had  been  a  member  of  the  City  Troop,  that  venera- 
ble organization  of  local  patriarchs  militant,  until  his  re- 
peated failures  to  attend  drill  had  exasperated  the  ruling 
powers  of  that  punctilious  body  to  the  verge  of  madness, 
and  they  requested  him  to  resign.  He  did  so,  and  buried 
his  hopes  of  promotion  in  the  cavalry  ;  but  the  military 
spirit  within  him  was  in  no  wise  quenched.  Another  year 
found  him  installed  as  captain  and  inspector  of  rifle 
practice  in  a  city  regiment  of  the  guard. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  which  sinecure  office  a  diplomatic 
brigadier-general  had  reached  downward  and  drawn  him 
up,  so  to  speak,  to  the  right  hand  of  the  throne,  remarking 
as  he  did  so, — 

"  Foxe  is  wild  and  worthless,  but  rich  and  elegant.  He'll 
make  a  first-rate  aide." 

But  they  were  astounded  on  the  staff"  not  more  by  his 
nonchalance  and  lack  of  punctuality  than  by  the  excellent 
form  of  his  uniforms  and  his  knowledge  of  the  minutiae  of 
tactics. 

"  Learned  it  at  Chester, — and  can't  very  well  forget  it," 
he  explained. 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND  THE  CHARITY   BALL.        19I 

And  so  on  this  night  of  the  Charity  Ball  he  was  coolly 
contemplating  cutting  the  entire  engagement  and  pulling 
down  upon  his  head  a  towering  Washington  monument  of 
consequences.  He  sat  before  the  grate,  his  hands  thrust  deep 
in  his  trousers-pockets  and  chin  buried  in  bosom,  watching 
the  red  light  flickering  on  the  polished  tips  of  his  shoes. 

His  student  friend,  Pilkington  Sykes,  home  from  Colum- 
bia for  the  Christmas  vacation,  was  remonstrating  boldly. 

"  Brace  up,  Foxey  !  You  can't  cut  a  Charity  Ball,  your 
nearest  relatives,  and  two  society  queens  without  playing 
havoc  generally.  You  can't  back  out  now, — it's  too  late. 
I  sent  word  for  you  myself  that  you  would  surely  be  on 
hand  at  ten-thirty.  You  make  me  out  a  fool  or  a  liar  if  you 
don't  go." 

"Can't  help  it,  sonny.  I've  cut  plenty  before  this. 
What  did  they  want  to  run  me  into  it  for  ?  They  knew  I 
didn't  want  to  go  ;  they  know  I  hate  such  things.  I'd 
give  a  farm  in  Jersey  if  they'd  kindly  forget  that  I'm  alive. 
Push  the  button  !" 

"  But  think  of  it,  man  !  If  you  don't  go  they'll  believe 
you're  crazy,  or,  what's  worse,  an  ass,  or  a  cad.  It's  fear- 
ful, man  !  fearful  to  contemplate  !  What  will  Mrs.  Ritten- 
house  think — and  Mrs.  Penn  Gaskill  Williamson — and  Mrs. 
Pinckney  Drexel  !  They'll  all  cut  you  dead.  They'll  ask 
who  the  gentleman  is  when  your  name  is  mentioned.  I 
know  how  it  will  be.     It's  fearful,  man  !" 

"Sonny,  be  quiet!  You're  young  and  inexperienced. 
If  those  people  had  any  notion  of  cutting  me,  they've  had 
oceans  of  chances  to  do  it  already.  I  want  them  to  cut 
me, — I  want  them  to  stop  sending  me  invitations, — and 
they  know  it.  There's  a  stack  now  in  my  club  box  three 
months  old.  Some  day  I'll  have  Patrick  open  them  and 
make  out  a  list  of  the  people  who  ought  never  to  speak  to 
me.  I  know  of  three  from  the  general  in  the  lot, — he  told 
me  of  them  himself. — Come  in,  boy  !  What' 11  you  have, 
sonny?  Two  Jamaica  rum  punches.  And  fly!  Don't 
wait  for  the  elevator  !  Three  steps  at  a  jump  down  and 
back,  or  never  enter  this  room  again  !" 

"But  you're  not  going  to  drink  anything,  man,  before 
you  go  to  the  ball?     You're  crazy  !" 

* '  I  tell  you  r  m  not  going  to  the  ball.     Balls  are  well 


192       CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND   THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

enough  for  youngsters  and  society  aspirants  and  swells,  but 
I've  had  enough  of  them.  Why,  sonny,  I'll  be  thirty-two 
in  a  week." 

The  defiant  Foxe  struggled  to  his  feet  and  looked  out  of 
the  window. 

"  Beastly  night.  I  wouldn't  wear  an  evening  suit  for  a 
thousand  dollars, — catch  cold  and  die. — Come  in  !  Boy, 
tell  them  to  spread  that  on  my  private  ledger, — and  here's 
a  wheel  for  you." 

The  college  weakling  was  bracing  his  back  against  the 
door,  barring  the  path  of  the  bewildered  Buttons, 

"  Foxey,  I  can't  stand  it !  For  my  sake — for  old  time's 
sake — get  into  your  clothes  and  go.  Get  there  some  way, 
and  then  if  you  must, — faint — have  an  apoplectic  fit  in  the 
v/idow's  arms — and  get  sent  to  the  hospital.  You  must 
go!" 

"Sonny,  you're  worse  than  the  plague  ! — Boy,  tell  Saun- 
ders to  send  up  the  likeliest  kid  in  the  house, — no,  tell  him 
to  come  himself!     Run  !  skip  !  fly  !" 

The  youth  on  vacation  fell  on  his  neck  and  made  arrange- 
ments for  an  embrace,  which  was  frustrated  by  a  dexterous 
back-trip  that  sent  him  rolling  on  the  floor. 

"None  of  your  tricks,  sonny!  I'll  go  if  it  will  make 
you  feel  very  much  better,  but  you  needn't  go  wild  over  it. 
Drink  that  mixture.     It  will  make  your  hair  curl." 

The  head  steward' s  tap  was  answered  by  a  gruff"  ' '  Come 
in  !"  and  that  pandering  worthy's  eye  fell  upon  two 
punch-glasses  projected  against  two  upturned  heads. 

"Oh — ah — er — Mr.  Foxe,  did  you  send  for  me,  sir? 
What  will  you  have,  sir?  If  it's  a  carriage,  I  fear  you're 
most  too  late,  sir.     They're  all  at  the  ball  by  this  time,  sir." 

' '  Saunders,  you  idiot !  Gather  your  wits  !  I  want  you 
to  do  something,  and  do  it  yourself,  and  do  it  quick. 
Here's  a  twenty.  Now,  call  a  four-wheeler — get  in  your- 
self— drive  to  the  Paris  laundry  for  my  clothes— break  into 
Reed's  and  get  me  a  tie — fetch  my  evening  suit  from  the 
tailors' — you  know,  what-you-call-'em,  on  Chestnut  Street, 
where  all  my  work's  done — get  that  new  cape  coat,  too. 
Stop  at  Paddle's  and  get  a  pair  of  evening  gaiters — and  a 
pair  of  lavender  gloves  any  place  !  Run  !  Don't  lose  a 
minute  !    Be  back  here  by  nine-thirty  sharp  !" 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL.        1 93 

"But,  sir — Lord,  sir — I  can't  leave,  sir,  I'm  needed 
'ere,  sir — and,  it's  very  late." 

"No  'but's'!'  Get  out!  Make  your  explanations 
when  you  come  back.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  Chicago 
pork  merchant  ?  Go  !  skip  !  and  hold  the  carriage  when 
you  come  back.  You'll  make  what  you  can  save  out  of 
that  bill." 

That  would  be  a  good  deal,  the  excellent  Saunders 
thought.  He  heard  the  last  word  going  through  the  door 
fike  a  shot. 

"  Great  guns  !  Foxey  !  The  man  can't  attend  to  all  that 
in  a  week.     Be  reasonable  at  any  rate." 

"Shut  up,  sonny.  I  said  I'd  go  to  that  ball  to  please 
you.  Now  let  me  go  in  my  own  way,  for  heaven's  sake. 
There's  oceans  of  time  for  getting  ready  for  a  ball." 

The  boy  was  looking  out  upon  the  street.  The  horses 
of  the  green  car,  struggling  through  the  drifts  at  the  inter- 
section of  Broad  and  Walnut,  cast  swirling  clouds  upon  the 
pedestrians  laboring  by,  with  their  heads  pulled  down  into 
their  coat-collars  like  misanthropic  turtles. 

"Foxey,"  he  said,  meditatively,  "if  you  were  to  miss 
that  ball  to-night  the  town  would  be  too  hot  to  hold  you. 
Broad  Street  in  August  will  be  chilly  compared  to  it." 

"There's  Bermuda,  sonny.  Boat  leaves  to-morrow,  and 
I've  a  standing  invitation  from  the  Grenadier  Guards  to 
come  down  any  time.  My  health  seems  to  need  a  change 
of  air,  too.  But  I'm  going  to  the  ball,  I  said.  Keep  your 
nerve  steady." 

"So  is  the  William  Penn  statue  going  to  the  top  of  the 
City  Hall  tower." 

A  bell-boy  tapped  and  entered. 

* '  Barbers  all  went  home  at  nine,  sir.  Very  sorry. 
Maybe  I  can  borrow  Mr.  Lane's  razor  for  you." 

"  Bring  a  razor  or  a  barber  in  two  minutes  or  I'll  have 
you  discharged.  Wait !  two  whiskeys  and  a  siphon, — ice 
in  the  glasses  !     Run  !  fly  !" 

The  youth  from  Columbia  nursed  his  leg  and  gazed 
disapprovingly  upon  the  unreasonable  Conyngham  from 
the  edge  of  the  sofa.  Then  he  went  softly  to  the  bath- 
room and  turned  on  the  warm  water.  At  that  moment  the 
bell-boy  returned  with  a  much-used  razor. 
in  17 


194      CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND   THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  antiquity  ?"  inquired  the  donee. 

' '  All  I  could  get,  sir.  Mr.  Lane  inquired  particularly 
if  it  was  for  you. ' ' 

"You  brazen  dissembler!  Why  didn't  you  bring  a 
bread-knife?" 

It  was  one  of  those  trials  to  which  one  must  submit  with 
fortitude.  A  visit  to  an  outside  barber  was  urgently  neces- 
sary, and  a  boy  was  despatched  to  reconnoitre.  He  re- 
turned reporting  an  ancient  colored  man  still  on  post  at 
Fifteenth  and  Sansom,  and  was  promptly  despatched  back 
to  occupy  and  develop  that  enemy's  attention  until  Con- 
yngham  arrived.  It  was  better  economy  to  dress  first  and 
be  shaved  afterwards. 

At  ten  o'clock  Saunders  returned  red  in  the  face  and 
very  much  out  of  breath,  convoyed  by  a  squadron  of  bell- 
boys with  bundles.  One  seized  the  shirt  and  inserted  the 
studs.  Another  laid  out  and  smoothed  the  dress  suit. 
Still  another  aided  Conyngham  in  disrobing.  At  ten- 
fifteen  he  was  all  that  his  tailor  could  wish  to  look  upon 
before  dying, — with  the  single  exception  of  tonsorial  finish, 
— and  he  descended  in  the  elevator  and  embarked  for  the 
barber's.  There  was  some  delay.  The  driver,  having 
learned  that  he  was  serving  Mr.  Conyngham  Foxe,  had 
crawled  into  his  vehicle  and  was  already  asleep  on  the  seats. 

The  colored  barber,  complaining  of  rheumatism  and 
family  cares,  was  delighted  to  have  the  ' '  honah  of  sarvin' 
sech  swell  gemmen  ;"  but  he  was  careful  to  state  that  his 
shop  at  that  time  was  running  on  a  cash  basis,  paying  and 
receiving  pay  as  it  went.  No  doubt  he  had  observed  a 
tendency  among  gentlemen  in  dress  suits  to  forget  their 
pocket-books  and  their  small  change.  Only  stress  of 
weather  had  delayed  him  in  his  shop  beyond  the  hour  of 
nine.  He  had  not  shaved  "sech  ag'eeable  gemmen  sence 
he  las'  shave  Gineral  Grant,"  he  explained,  however,  as  he 
clutched  a  dollar  for  his  pains. 

On  returning  to  the  carriage  at  ten-forty  there  was  an- 
other delay  and  a  parley  concerning  the  next  halting-place. 

"You  ought  to  go  right  away,  man.  I'll  get  out  at  the 
Bellevue,  and  you  drive  right  on  like  you  were  going  to  a 
fire.     You'll  keep  them  twenty  minutes  at  least  as  it  is." 

"  Plenty  of  time,  sonny.     They're  in  no  special  hurry. 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL.        I95 

We'll  just  drive  to  the  club  and  see  if  Parkinson's  there. 
He'll  want  to  see  me  after  the  ball,  and  we  might  as  well 
make  a  date  now. — Driver  !  Thirteenth  and  Walnut." 
The  carriage-wheels  creaked  through  the  frozen  snow,  and 
the  horses'  hoofs  stirred  up  clouds  that  took  away  the 
breath  of  the  pedestrians. 

Entering  the  club,  the  head  porter  touched  Conyngham 
on  the  arm. 

"Mr.  Foxe,"  he  said,  excitedly,  "there's  a  man  been 
lookin'  for  ye  with  a  message.  I  sent  him  to  the  Saginaw. 
He  says  it's  very  important,  sir,  and  he's  to  come  back 
here  if  he  don't  find  you." 

"Be  up  in  the  reading-room. — Ah,  Parkinson,  just  the 
fellow  I  want  to  see. — Sonny,  it's  too  late  to  go  to  that 
beastly  ball  now.  I'd  rather  not  go  than  be  late.  You  get  in 
the  carriage  and  drive  to  West  Logan  Square  yourself  Tell 
them  that  very  important  business  has  detained  me.  A 
detective  from  London — case  that  demands  the  utmost 
secrecy — must  return  to  New  York  to  take  steamer  by 
midnight  train.  Make  it  sound  well.  Hurry  back  and 
meet  me  here."  And  the  socially  condemned  took  passage 
by  elevator  for  the  library. 

Pilkington  Sykes  clambered  back  into  the  carriage  grum- 
bling lamentations  unfit  for  historical  preservation.  He 
felt  sure  it  was  the  last  time  he  would  ever  stand  by  Foxey 
in  a  social  peril.  He  could  stay  with  him  through  any 
other  crisis,  but  never  again  where  appointments  as  escort 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  matter.  He  was  bearing 
Conyngham  Foxe's  social  head  to  the  basket,  and  would 
probably  be  chief  mourner  at  the  funeral.  A  blooming 
termination  to  a  holiday  vacation. 

Foxe  was  boring  himself  with  the  newest  number  oi  Life 
when  the  messenger  returned  with  the  note.  By  the  time 
he  had  read  it  through  to  the  signature  the  Charity  Ball 
and  all  things  thereunto  pertaining  were  obliterated  memo- 
ries.    It  was  from  General  Porter,  and  read, — 

"  Telegram  from  the  governor  orders  the  command  under  arms  at 
once  for  the  coke  regions  to  suppress  riot  among  strikers.  Am  con- 
fined to  bed  by  temporary  illness,  and  since  assistant  adjutant-general 
is  out  of  town,  I  desire  you  to  assemble  the  staff  and  issue  all  necessary 
orders  in  my  name.     Everything  depends  upon  your  promptness  and 


196       CONYNGHAM    FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY    BALL. 

judgment.  The  brigade  should  depart  by  early  trains  in  the  morning. 
I  send  to  you  as  you  are  usually  unoccupied.  Report  receipt  by  this 
messenger. 

"  Porter, 
"  Brigadier- General,  Commanding." 

Here  was  something  truly  worth  an  effort.  He  seized  a 
pen  and  wrote, — 

"  Everything  will  proceed  as  you  direct.  Brigade  will  leave  Broad 
Street  Station  at  eight  to-morrow  morning.  Special  car  on  last  section 
for  the  staff. 

"  FOXE, 

"  What's  the  use  being  on  the  staff  if  you  can't  ride  in 
a  special  car?"  he  thought.  "Here,  boy;  take  that  and 
run.     You  may  save  a  life  if  you  hurry." 

Eleven  p.m.,  half  the  officers  at  the  Charity  Ball,  the  rest 
asleep,  and  a  brigade  of  twenty-five  hundred  men  to  be 
turned  out  before  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  ! 

"  Thomas,  ring  up  a  cab  !"  he  called,  sharply,  and  turned 
again  to  the  writing-desk. 

"For  staff-officers,  regimental  commanders,  and  field 
officers,  this,"  he  muttered. 

"Your  regiment  will  be  formed  under  arms  at  the  armory  by  seven 
o'clock  A.M.  to-morrow,  the  loth  inst.,  with  full  field  equipment  and 
rations  for  three  days  in  haversacks.  From  the  armory  you  will  march 
to  the  Broad  Street  Station,  forming  on  arrival  there  as  directed  by  the 
staff-officer  in  waiting.  By  eight  o'clock  you  will  be  embarked  and  en 
route  for  active  service  in  a  region  to  be  announced  later.  Report  re- 
ceipt at  once  to  head-quarters,  City  Hall.  By  command  of  Brigadier- 
General  Porter. 

"CONYNGHAM    FOXE, 

"A.D.C.  and  A.A.A.G." 

* '  No,  cab,  sir  ;  sorry,  sir  ;  every  wan  out, ' '  interrupted 
the  porter. 

"I'll  have  to  walk,  then.  Bring  my  overshoes  and  that 
fur-lined  coat  hanging  in  my  closet.     Hurry  !" 

Five  minutes  later  he  entered  the  office  of  the  Western 
Union  Telegraph  Company  at  Broad  and  Chestnut. 

' '  How  many  messengers  have  you  ready  to  go  out  ?' ' 

"Ten,  sir." 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL.        I97 

' '  Let  all  of  them  go  with  me  ;  also  an  operator  who  is  a 
typewriter  copyist." 

"  Right  away,  sir?" 

* '  Right  away.  Tell  them  to  come  with  me.  They  may 
not  be  back  before  morning,  but  they  will  be  well  paid. 
That's  my  address." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  glancing  at  the  well- 
known  name. 

Messengers'  fees  were  not  usually  paid  in  bills,  and  ten 
dollars  would  not  go  far,  either.  The  only  place  where 
coin  could  be  had  at  such  an  hour  were  the  restaurants  and 
bars.     He  crossed  to  Steele's, — they  knew  him  there. 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  a  hundred  dollars  in  silver?"  he 
asked  of  the  bartender,  who  was  grinning  broadly  at  the 
procession  of  messengers  filing  through  the  door.  He 
thought  it  was  one  of  Mr.  Foxe's  queer  freaks. 

' '  Certainly,  Mr.  Foxe.     Going  to  treat  that  crowd  ?' ' 

"Not  right  away, — not  before  they  earn  it,"  he  said, 
filling  his  pockets  with  coin. 

The  snow  was  whirling  under  the  dark  archways  as  he 
led  the  little  squad  struggling  through  the  drifts  to  the  un- 
finished western  gallery  of  the  City  Hall.  The  floors  were 
not  laid,  no  lights  were  burning,  and  no  watchman  stood 
guard  over  that  part  of  the  building.  It  was  very  dark, 
very  quiet,  and  very  cold  there.  He  opened  the  storm- 
door  of  the  head-quarters  office  with  a  latch-key.  It  was 
one  of  those  locks  that  work  with  either  key  or  combina- 
tion, whichever  one  you  choose  to  be  troubled  with.  He  lit 
the  gas,  and  showed  the  operater  a  typewriter  and  a  tele- 
graph relay. 

"I  had  that  wire  cut  in  here  some  time  ago,"  he  ex- 
plained. "Thought  it  might  come  handy  some  time  or 
other.  I  want  you  to  make  fifteen  copies  of  that  order  as 
fast  as  ever  you  can. ' '  He  laid  before  him  the  order  he  had 
written  at  the  club. 

Then  turning  to  the  sleepy  messengers,  he  said, — 

"Wake  up,  boys!  I  want  you  to  make  records  for 
yourselves  to-night.  I  have  an  important  message  for 
each  one  of  you  to  deliver.  You  are  to  hunt  for  your  man 
and  keep  on  hunting  till  you  find  him.  Then  you  are  to 
bring  his  answer  back  here.     I'll  wait  for  you,  and  every 

17* 


198       CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL. 

boy  that  kicks  a  goal  will  get  five  dollars  down  for  his 
valuable  exertions."  He  rattled  his  pockets  significantly. 
The  boys  were  wide  awake  enough  now.  Five  dollars  was 
an  independent  fortune  to  every  one  of  them. 

He  took  the  copies  from  the  typewriter  and  addressed 
each  in  bold  characters,  writing  ' '  Report  receipt  by  this 
messenger"  plainly  on  the  face  of  each.  In  ten  minutes 
the  boys  were  fighting  the  storm,  hunting  up  regimental 
commanders  and  staff-officers. 

"If  they  don't  find  them  at  home,"  he  thought,  "they'll 
catch  them  on  their  way  back  from  the  ball." 

There  were  other  messages  to  send  before  the  machinery 
of  the  brigade  could  be  set  in  motion.  The  telegraph- 
operator  would  have  his  hands  full. 

"Get  your  central  office  and  hold  it,"  he  said.  Then 
wrote, — 

"  You  will  report  with  all  men  of  your  company  under  arms,  with 
full  field  equipment  and  three  days'  rations,  at  the  armory  before  seven 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  the  loth  inst.,  preparatory  for  leaving  the 
city  for  duty  under  orders  of  the  governor.  By  command  of  Brigadier- 
General  Porter. 

"  CONVNGHAM    FOXE, 

"A.D.C.  atid  A.A.A.G." 

This  was  for  the  non-commissioned  officers,  whose  ad- 
dresses were  carefully  kept  by  roster. 

"Repeat  this  message  to  every  name  on  that  list,"  he 
said.     "  It  will  probably  keep  you  busy  awhile." 

The  operator  knew  his  business.  He  sent  the  message, 
then  the  list,  and  let  the  central  office  do  the  work.  He 
had  been  a  messenger  before  he  learned  the  sound  code. 

The  trains  had  to  be  gotten  out.  He  made  a  list  of  the 
Pennsylvania  officials  from  the  president  down  to  the  yard- 
master,  and  penned  an  inverted  round  robin  for  them. 


"  Brigade  ordered  to  coke  regions,  to  quell  rioters.  In  case  you 
have  not  been  notified  by  quartermaster-general,  we  need  four  trains, 
fifteen  cars  each,  ready  to  leave  Broad  Street  with  troops  at  eight  to- 
morrow morning ;  one  Pullman  in  every  five  coaches.  Will  direct  em- 
barkation in  person. 

"  Porter, 
"  Brigadier-General,  Commanding.^* 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL.        1 99 

The  coke  interests  and  the  railroad  interests  were  not 
widely  separated.  The  brigade  would  leave  Broad  Street 
that  morning  if  nothing  else  did.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
the  trains  would  be  ready.  Certain  expressions  of  official 
good-will  had  been  received  at  head-quarters  before. 
.  The  room  was  cold  and  cheerless,  no  fire,  only  one  jet 
of  gas.  There  was  no  furniture  but  the  tables  and  the  tier 
of  closets  ranged  around  the  sides  of  the  room,  where  the 
staff-officers  kept  their  uniforms  and  swords.  No  sound 
broke  the  stillness  but  the  sharp  clicking  of  the  telegraph 
relay.  Conyngham  put  his  feet  on  the  table  and  settled 
back  into  a  chair.  He  must  wait  for  those  boys.  It  would 
never  do  for  the  frozen  little  waifs  to  be  disappointed  when 
they  returned,  and  the  operator  would  surely  leave  as  soon 
as  his  last  message  was  sent.  But  there  was  really  plenty 
of  time  before  he  would  have  to  be  at  the  railway  station  to 
direct  the  embarkation.  His  uniform  was  at  the  club,  and 
the  liquid  rations  for  the  trip  had  to  be  ordered,  but  it  was 
only  a  little  after  midnight.  He  hoped  CA^erything  would 
run  smoothly.  He  hoped  it  would,  but  there  were  mis- 
givings ;  the  brigade  had  never  been  hurried  like  this 
before. 

The  clicking  of  the  instrument  was  soporific.  He  heard 
a  deep-toned  clock-bell  strike  one,  and  fell  dozing. 

The  next  fact  that  forced  itself  upon  his  consciousness 
was  that  some  huge  hand  was  shaking  him  roughly  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Wake  up,  will  you?"  growled  a  surly  voice. 

He  struggled  to  his  feet.  A  heavy,  stoop-shouldered 
man,  with  dark,  sunken  eyes  and  a  full  beard,  was  glaring 
at  him  from  beneath  the  rim  of  a  grimy  silk  hat  of  ancient 
pattern.  He  looked  like  a  heavy  villain  rvfnning  loose 
from  some  neighboring  theatre. 

' '  What  are  you  sendin'  out  those  orders  in  Gineral  Por- 
ter's  name  for?  I  know  you,  Major  Foxe.  You  sent  me 
to  jail  for  runnin'  off  with  your  horse  last  camp,  an'  had 
me  dismissed  in  disgrace  from  the  regiment,  all  along  of  a 
little  fun.  You're  tryin'  to  git  the  troops  down  a-fightin' 
with  honest  laborin'  men  that  wants  fair  pay  for  an  honest 
day's  work.  Yer  a  slik,  palaverin',  lazy  aristocrat, — too 
lazy  to  do  anything  yerself,  an'  too  stingy  to  want  an  honest 


200       CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL. 

laborin'  man  paid  full  wages.  But  it's  man  toman  here. 
You  an'  I  are  equal  in  this  deal.  You  sit  down  there 
and  countermand  those  orders  or  it's  all  day  with  you. 
I'm  the  man  that  can  make  you  do  it,  an'  you  might  as 
well  settle  down  quietly  to  business." 

There  was  no  dream  about  this.  The  man  was  the  same 
he  had  ordered  into  arrest  at  the  camp, — and  he  was  giving 
him  orders.  His  tone,  his  manner,  his  words,  were  the  re- 
fined quintessence  of  impudence.  As  the  fellow  talked  he 
collected  his  scattered  senses. 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  any  orders  I  give?"  he 
asked,  waving  the  intruder  back  with  his  hand.  "  You  are 
drunk  ;  possibly  crazy.  At  any  rate,  you  are  laboring  un- 
der a  tremendous  delusion  if  you  think  you  can  enter  this 
office  and  carry  on  to  suit  yourself  There's  a  door  behind 
you,  and  it  opens  from  the  inside.  You  get  the  other  side 
of  it  in  three  seconds  or  I'll  put  you  there  !" 

"Not  so  fast,  my  young  buck!"  the  man  answered, 
edging  back  a  little.  "I'm  a  member  of  the  Amalgamated 
Coke  Association,  an'  I've  got  plenty  of  backin'  in  what- 
ever I  undertake.  You  might  jest  as  well  do  what  I  tell 
you  without  any  fuss,  an'  save  doctor's  bills — possibly 
funeral  expenses,  an'  mournin'  for  yer  wife.  I'm  here  to 
stop  this  shipment  of  soldiers,  an'  it's  got  to  stop." 

"What  in  the  blooming,  howling,  jumping  blazes  do  you 
take  me  for  !"  cried  Conyngham,  throwing  his  overcoat  on 
the  table.  ' '  Face  about  and  get  through  that  door  be- 
fore I  count  three  or  I'll  turn  your  corpse  over  to  the 
police  !" 

The  man  didn't  seem  to  electrify  worth  a  Chinese  cent 
piece.  He  was  preparing  for  fight,  not  flight.  There 
wasn't  a  weapon  in  the  building  more  deadly  than  a  staff 
sword,  and  that  wouldn't  kill  a  consumptive  mosquito.  He 
would  be  forced  to  descend  to  vulgar  fists.  The  prospect 
was  acquiring  considerable  gloom,  but  Conyngham  took  up 
a  sparring  attitude  and  watched  his  opportunity.  The  man 
backed  away  and  waited. 

But  he  did  not  wait  long.  The  man  made  a  lunge  to 
strike  him,  but  instead  cushioned  the  blow  of  a  tolerably 
hard  fist  somewhere  between  the  eyes.  He  appeared  used 
to  that  sort  of  massage.     He  only  backed  away  and  made 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND  THE  CHARITY   BALL.       20I 

another  lunge.  This  time  his  foot  caught  something  and 
he  fell  over  against  the  table. 

After  this  brief  skirmish  of  the  outposts  the  reserves  were 
drawn  into  the  engagement.  The  representative  of  the 
Amalgamated  Coke  Association  drew  reinforcements  from 
cover  in  the  rear,  and  dealt  so  heavy  a  blow  on  the  head  of 
his  dandified  opponent  that  the  latter  dropped  like  a  bale 
of  hay,  and  spread  his  shining  shirt  front  and  delicately  ad- 
justed tie  all  over  a  very  dirty  carpet.  There  are  times 
when  a  loaded  billy  is  a  most  trusty  weapon. 

This  part  of  the  work  was  done  as  well  as  his  most  influ- 
ential constituent  could  have  wished.  The  orders  were  not 
exactly  countermanded,  but  the  fur-lined  overcoat  would 
make  up  for  that.  And  there  was  coin  in  the  pockets  !  He 
started  to  leave  his  own  ragged  ulster,  but  profiting  by  a 
wiser  second  thought,  returned  and  took  it  with  him.  The 
face  on  the  floor  was  very  pale.  The  billy  had  cut  the 
scalp,  and  blood  was  oozing  from  the  wound.  The  repre- 
sentative thought  he  might  have  killed  him,  but  there  was 
no  time  for  investigations.  The  interests  of  number  one 
required  immediate  attention,  and  there  was  an  early  train 
for  the  coke  regions.     It  left  in  ten  minutes. 

In  the  house  on  West  Logan  Square  Mrs.  Montmorency 
Foxe  sat  tapping  the  tiling  with  the  toe  of  her  slipper, 
veiled,  gloved,  and  bundled  to  the  ears.  Mrs.  Ritten- 
house,  from  a  seat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  grate,  was 
turning  into  her  daughter's  eyes  one  long  earnest  gleam  of 
unutterable  disgust. 

"Why  doesn't  the  man  come?  What  on  earth  can  be 
the  matter?  It  is  already  almost  eleven  !  He  might  at 
least  have  sent  a  note.  I  knew  he  was  careless,  but  I 
never  believed  him  utterly  lacking  in  every  evidence  of 
good  breeding  !"  stormed  the  elder  Rittenhouse. 

"Some  time,  mother,  during  a  lucid  interval,  he  may 
apologize,"  suggested  the  daughter.  "The  disease  is  not 
incurable. ' ' 

"There  are  no  doubt  excellent  reasons  for  his  tardy 
appearance.  Miss  Rittenhouse,"  retorted  Mrs.  Foxe,  taking 
exception  to  the  final  aspersion. 

' '  Most  excellent,  no  doubt, ' '  nodded  the  mother.     ' '  A 


202       CONYNGHAM   FOXE   AND   THE   CHARITY    BALL. 

brief  note  delivered  by  a  messenger  would  have  prevented 
our  sitting  here  for  an  hour  wrapped  to  the  tips  of  our 
ears." 

Ting-a-ling-a-ling  !  away  back  in  the  passage. 

A  servant  entered  bearing  a  card. 

"Now,  ladies,  do  try  and  look  severe,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Foxe,  beaming  with  triumphant  sarcasm,  and  gathering  up 
her  skirts.  "Wither  him  with  a  glance  the  moment  he 
enters  !" 

But  the  card  read,  ' '  Mr.  Pilkington  Sykes,  Columbia 
College. ' ' 

"  Of  all  others  !     Show  him  in," 

"  Ah — er — ladies,  good-evening  !  Mrs.  Foxe  ! — I  regret 
to  be  the  bearer  of  bad  news — but  Mr.  Foxe  was  on  the 
point  of  starting  here  when  he  was  called  upon  by  a  gentle- 
man on  very  urgent  business — very  important  business — 
gentleman  from  London,  to  return  by  steamer  to-morrow 
morning — and  he  begged  me  present  his  most  humble  and 
sincere  apologies. ' ' 

"Indeed!  By  you.  Why  not  by  a  messenger?  You 
left  him  at  the  club,  no  doubt. — Mrs.  Rittenhouse,  Mr. 
Sykes." 

"A-h-h!  Some  friend  of  Mr.  Foxe."  Through  the 
lorgnettes, — "Most  honored  to  meet  you,  sir.  Tell  Mr. 
Foxe,  when  you  return  to  the  club,  that  we  had  not 
thought  of  going  to  the  ball  after  hearing  that  he  had  been 
selected  as  our  escort.  He  has  not  inconvenienced  us  in 
the  least.  There  is  nothing  to  warrant  his  apology. — Mrs. 
Foxe,  if  you  will  excuse  us,  my  daughter  and  I  will  retire 
to  our  rooms."  With  a  sweeping  bow  the  twain  glided 
majestically  down  the  length  of  the  drawing-room  and 
disappeared  through  the  drapery. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Sykes  !  How  could  he  have  disappointed  us 
so  !"  moaned  Mrs.  Foxe.     She  was  ready  to  weep. 

So  was  Sykes.  He  felt  that  further  delay  on  his  part 
might  not  prove  agreeable,  so  he  bowed  himself  backward 
through  the  door,  and  rolled  back  to  the  club. 

"That's  the  way  they  treat  a  fellow  who  is  not  used  to 
lying,"  he  muttered  to  himself  "  A  flat  prospect  now, — 
flat  as  the  house-tops  from  the  Art  Club  roof-garden." 

The  porter  told  him  that  Mr.  Foxe  had  left  the  club  on 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND   THE   CHARITY    BALL.        203 

business  and  would  be  back  soon.  ' '  He  said  you  was  to 
wait  here,  sir."     So  he  waited. 

Twelve  o'clock, — playing  billiards.  One  o'clock, — just 
going  down  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  liqueur.  Two 
o'clock  !  What  on  earth  was  the  matter  with  Foxe  !  He 
called  a  carriage. 

The  porter  did  not  know  where  Mr.  Foxe  had  gone. 
Inquiry  by  telephone  to  the  Bellevue  returned  in  the  nega- 
tive. Mr.  Foxe  had  gone  out  without  a  carriage.  It  must 
be  staff  business.  When  he  played  major  he  would  go 
anywhere  under  any  conditions.  It  was  the  only  thing 
that  shook  him  out  of  his  lazy  habits. 

"City  Hall — west  entrance!"  he  called  to  the  driver. 
"I'll  make  sure  about  head-quarters  before  I  go  any  place 
else." 

Hurrying  through  the  dark  hall-way  he  almost  fell  over 
two  messenger-boys.  They  had  been  trying  to  open  the 
outer  door. 

"  Mister,  they's  a  bloke  in  there  some  place  'as  promised 
us  a  fiver  apiece  if  we'd  take  a  letter  an'  bring  him  an  an- 
swer. An'  now  we's  run  all  over  the  city  and  most  froze 
ourselves  doin'  it,  he's  got  us  locked  out."  The  little 
fellows  were  shivering  and  their  voices  trembled  weakly. 

He  must  have  been  there  and  gone.  The  door  was 
caught  by  a  spring  combination  lock,  and  Sykes  knew  the 
combination.  He  used  to  loaf  in  there  mornings  to  read 
the  papers.  He  lit  a  match,  turned  the  knob  to  the  proper 
point  and  opened  the  door,  the  boys  at  his  heels. 

A  man  in  an  evening  suit  was  lying  opposite  the  door 
face  downward  looking  very  white  and  death-like  about  the 
ears,  and  blood  was  flowing  from  a  cut  in  a  forehead  that 
belonged  to  no  other  than  Conyngham  Foxe.  Sykes  sus- 
pended breathing  operations  a  few  moments,  but  had  sense 
enough  left  to  whisper  to  the  messengers, — 

"Here!  You  youngsters  grab  a  leg  apiece  and  we'll 
put  him  in  the  carriage.  There's  nothing  to  be  done  here. 
If  he's  not  dead,  he's  almost  frozen.     Easy,  now  !" 

Conyngham  made  the  journey  to  the  carriage  and  back 
to  the  Bellevue  much  as  any  dead  man  would  have  made  it. 
Ready  hands  enough  were  there  to  bear  him  to  his  room 
and  stand  horrified  around  the  bed.     But  he  was  not  rigid 


204      CONYNGHAM  FOXE  AND  THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

enough  for  a  dead  man.  Sykes  demanded  restoratives  and 
a  physician.  The  shiny  shirt  bosom  was  hopelessly  stained, 
and  for  a  man  on  the  point  of  attending  a  Charity  Ball 
Foxey  presented  a  most  miserable  appearance. 

The  rubbing  and  brandy  soon  had  the  desired  effect. 
He  opened  his  eyes  and  began  to  look  hostile.  His 
intellects  had  resumed  operations  on  a  thinking  basis. 

"Where's  the  honorable  representative  of  the  Amalga- 
mated Coke  Association?"  he  asked.  "That's  what  a 
fellow  gets  for  saving  a  rascal  from  the  penitentiary.  I 
ought  to  have  let  him  go  up  last  summer  when  he  ran  off 
with  my  horse.  Now  he  comes  back  and  slugs  me.  Oh, 
sonny,  did  you  pay  those  boys?  I've  got  to  be  at  Broad 
Street  Station  at  seven  o'clock  to  see  about  those  trains. 
Let's  have  a  little  terrapin  and  Duff  Gordon  and  call  it  late 
dinner.  You  oughtn't  let  that  ex-veteran  get  away.  A 
little  solitary  meditation  will  do  him  good.  Fellows  !  we 
ought  to  go  down  now  and  get  a  small  lunch." 

But  the  doctor  vetoed  the  proposition,  and  motioned  the 
reviving  attendants  to  go  out.  Then  the  doctor  and  the 
Columbia  infant  removed  his  party  dress  and  arrayed  him 
in  garments  better  suited  to  a  fortnight  in  bed,  and  the 
Columbia  infant  resolutely  mounted  guard  over  him. 
Foxey  began  to  feel  tired  and  weak,  and  thought  he 
would  go  to  sleep.  The  doctor  went  out,  forbidding  vis- 
itors and  prescribing  quiet  and  hospital  diet.  Afterwards 
Foxey  was  glad  he  did. 

Every  one  has  followed  the  movements  of  the  brigade 
from  the  time  it  assembled  at  Broad  Street  Station,  all 
through  the  coke  regions,  to  the  hour  of  its  return.  Every 
one  knows  how  the  governor's  telegraphic  order  for  troops 
was  sent  from  Harrisburg  at  ten  o'clock  one  night,  and  be- 
fore the  same  hour  of  the  next  his  entire  division  was  en- 
camped in  the  coke  regions.  It  was  the  most  phenomenal 
mobilization  in  the  history  of  the  guard.  Familiar  as  a 
fairy-tale — to  every  one  who  reads  the  newspapers. 

And  the  Philadelphia  Brigade,  although  farthest  from  the 
scene  of  the  riot,  was  first  to  arrive  on  the  ground. 

Conyngham  Foxe  was  absent  from  the  assembly  of  the 
staff  at  the  railroad  station,  and  the  special  car  was  obliged 


CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL.        205 

to  roll  away  without  him.  Every  man  of  them  had  said 
Foxey  would  never  make  a  soldier,  and  this  was  a  clincher  ; 
now  they  knew  of  a  certainty  whereof  they  spoke.  The 
general  being  a  taciturn  man,  and  not  given  to  talking  ex- 
cept on  official  business,  was  rarely  approached  on  moot 
social  points,  and  had  given  no  opinion  concerning  the 
cause  of  Foxe's  defection.  This  the  able  members  present 
for  duty  understood  as  a  sign  that  he  was  properly  ashamed 
of  having  been  persuaded  for  social  reasons  to  appoint  an 
aide-de-camp  so  completely  unfitted  for  the  duties  of  an 
officer.  Major  Foxe's  resignation  would  certainly  be  forth- 
coming, and  they  disputed  among  themselves  concerning 
his  probable  successor. 

The  brigade  had  put  down  the  insurrection  and  had 
returned  before  Conyngham  left  his  bed  in  No.  14  of  the 
Hotel  Bellevue.  Sykes's  report  of  the  conference  at  West 
Logan  Square  had  decided  him  to  pass  the  period  of  his 
convalescence  at  the  island  of  Bermuda.  The  hotel  was  as 
good  a  place  as  any  to  start  from  ;  there  was  no  use  in 
being  sent  home.  Pilkington  Sykes  decided  to  cut  the 
spring  semester  as  far  as  the  Easter  vacation  and  go  also. 
He  had  been  present  at  the  execution,  had  assisted  in  the 
funeral  services  ;  it  would  never  do  to  desert  the  body 
at  the  entrance  to  the  cemetery. 

They  were  at  the  wharf  of  the  steamer  watching  the  last 
of  the  baggage  ascend  the  plank.  The  great  whistle  had 
already  sounded,  warning  visitors  to  quit  the  decks,  and  it 
was  time  to  go  aboard.  The  mate  above  was  motioning 
them  to  hurry.  Conyngham  hastened  a  little,  and  in  doing 
so  almost  ran  into  the  arms  of  a  lady  who,  with  her  daugh- 
ter, was  just  descending.  He  started  back,  tipped  his  hat, 
and  begged  pardon  involuntarily,  without  raising  his  eyes. 
What  was  his  surprise,  then,  to  be  addressed  in  the  most 
cordial  manner, — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Foxe  !  I  am  so  glad  to  have  seen  you  before 
you  left.  We  saw  some  friends  away  and  felt  sure  we 
would  meet  you.  You  do  not  know  how  sorry  we  have 
been  about  your  dreadful  accident.  We  have  sympathized 
most  truly  ever  since  Mr.  Parkinson  told  us  about  it.  Do 
be  careful  of  yourself,  and  come  back  well  as  ever.  You 
must  come  right  up  and  see  us  the  day  you  arrive. ' ' 

18 


205       CONYNGHAM   FOXE  AND   THE   CHARITY   BALL. 

All  this  was  poured  forth  while  Sykes  was  backing  up 
the  plank,  and  Foxey  was  bowing  and  blushing,  and  the 
daughter  was  smiling  and  warbling  little  chirps  like  a 
canary-bird  of,  "Yes,  Mr.  Foxe,  indeed  we  do!"  and 
"We  are  so  sorry,"  and  so  on,  and  the  mother  talking  a 
little  louder  and  a  little  louder  as  Mr.  Foxe  was  receding 
politely  in  the  wake  of  the  dumfounded  Sykes.  So  they 
waved  their  handkerchiefs  from  the  deck  as  the  steamer 
backed  off,  and  Mrs.  Rittenhouse  and  her  daughter 
beamed  upon  their  diminishing  figures  a  mellow  gaze  of 
regretful  radiance  as  if  they  were  taking  leave  of  their  next 
of  kin. 

And  Sykesey  said  to  Foxey,  "  If  signs  and  wonders  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  matter,  your  grave  will  probably 
be  kept  green.  There  will  be  a  resurrection  in  about  six 
weeks,  and  your  late  lamented  social  corpse  will  gather  its 
dry  bones  and  rise  again." 

And  Foxey  said  to  Sykesey,  "There  is  no  death, — no 
social  death." 


THE  SOLDIER'S  AID  SOCIETY. 
I. 

"  And  with  velvet  pansies,  around  like  a  bower, 
The  maiden  found  her  mystic  flower ; 
Now,  gentle  flower,  I  pray  thee  tell 
If  ray  lover  loves  me,  and  loves  me  well." 

Mr.  Brayton's  house  was  a  large  double  mansion, 
white,  with  green  blinds  ;  it  was  set  a  little  way  back  from 
the  street,  and  upon  each  side  of  the  straight  path,  leading 
from  the  gate  to  the  door,  were  broad  flower-beds  filled 
with  plants  of  every  variety.  These  beds  were  bordered 
with  a  narrow  edge  of  box,  and  the  whole  establishment 
bore  the  air  of  old-time  New  England  aristocracy.  On  this 
particular  afternoon  the  front  door,  with  its  serpent  knocker 
of  brass,  stood  wide  open,  as  if  to  welcome  the  ladies  of 
the  village  who  were  going  en  masse  to  attend  the  Soldier's 
Aid  Society. 

Jennie  Parker,  the  belle  of  the  town,  with  her  pink  cheeks 
and  golden  hair,  was  walking  rapidly  down  Front  Street, 
arm  in  arm  with  her  friend  Lillie  Watson,  from  Philadel- 
phia, who  was  disclosing  a  wonderful  scheme  that  some  of 
the  girls  whom  she  knew  had  tried  to  interest  the  soldiers 
and  themselves. 

"  You  see,  Jennie,"  she  said,  "  Hettie  made  six  pairs  of 
mittens  for  our  box  last  winter,  and  in  every  one  she  put  a 
note,  and,  would  you  really  believe  it,  she  had  five 
answers. ' ' 

"Why,  Lillie,"  exclaimed  her  friend,  "did  she  sign  her 
real  name  to  them  ?' ' 

' '  Certainly  she  did,  and  I  think  some  of  her  notes  must 
have  been  very  silly,  for  she  is  a  great  flirt,  and  I  never 
liked  her  ;  but  any  way,  after  that  ever  so  many  tried  it." 

"It  would  be  splendid  !"  said  Jennie.  "I'll  tell  them 
this  afternoon  about  it.  But  did  you  try  it,  Lillie,  and  did 
you  get  a  letter?" 

207 


208  THE   soldier's   AID   SOCIETY. 

Lillie  blushed  and  tossed  her  head,  but  after  some  coax- 
ing displayed  a  brass  button,  which  she  had  made  into  a 
pin  and  wore  at  her  neck,  saying,  however,  that  she  would 
tell  nothing  more  until  that  night. 

As  they  neared  the  house  Lillie  asked,  ' '  Who  is  this 
Miss  Brayton  whose  house  we  are  going  to  ?' ' 

"  Oh,  she  is  an  old  maid,  but  her  father  is  the  wealthiest 
man  in  town,  and  she  started  the  '  Soldier's  Aid'  here  ;  she 
runs  all  the  guilds  and  such  things,  and  she  does  have  the 
loveliest  flowers,  especially  pansies  ;  she  has  every  variety, 
and  they  are  in  blossom  all  the  year  round.  People  say 
she  had  a  love-affair  years  ago  and  gave  up  a  splendid  man, 
Mr.  Carleton,  simply  because  he  was  an  atheist." 

"  How  very  silly  she  must  be  !  I  suppose  she  would  be 
too  priggish  to  put  notes  in  any  of  the  things?"  asked 
Lillie. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,  she  is  too  old  for  romance  ;  she  must 
be  thirty-five  if  she  is  a  day,"  exclaimed  the  pretty 
seventeen-year-old  maiden. 

The  prim  New  England  matrons  looked  aghast  at  the 
idea  of  notes  being  sent  about  promiscuously  with  their 
daughters'  names  attached,  but  the  girls  tossed  their  heads 
and  looked  defiant.  The  Saturday  following  was  appointed 
for  the  packing  of  the  barrels,  and  the  ladies  chosen  for  the 
work  were  Miss  Helena  Brayton,  Mrs.  Martin,  and  Jennie 
Parker,  whose  friend  Lillie  offered  to  assist. 

That  night,  when  Helena  Brayton  went  to  her  room,  she 
unlocked  a  small  writing-desk,  and  taking  out  a  case  which 
contained  an  ambrotype  of  Ferdinand  Carleton,  looked 
long  and  earnestly  at  it.  Then  taking  out  a  package  of 
letters,  she  sat  down  by  her  table  and  read  for  some  time. 
One  envelope  contained  a  bunch  of  faded  pansies,  tied  with 
a  violet  ribbon.  "I  never  cease  to  think  of  him,"  she 
said,  musingly  ;  and  the  remembrance  of  their  last  inter- 
view rose  up  before  her.  "  It  would  be  worse  than  foolish 
for  me  to  write  any  note  and  put  with  that  dressing-gown," 
she  thought,  as  her  eyes  turned  to  a  gray  robe  which  lay 
on  her  lounge,  and  which  she  had  just  finished.  "  I  would 
not  want  any  one  but  him  to  get  the  note,"  she  murmured, 
"and  yet  I  certainly  don't  want  him  to  be  wounded  and 
laid  up  in  the  hospital ;  but  all  the  time  it  has  seemed  as  if 


THE  soldier's  AID  SOCIETY.  209 

I  were  making  that  robe  for  him.  I  had  the  quilted  satin 
of  blue  just  because  I  knew  he  would  like  it.  But  it  is  not 
likely  that  he  would  get  either  the  dressing-gown  or  the 
note,  and  perhaps  he  has  forgotten  me  any  way." 

She  laid  her  arms  upon  the  table,  and  resting  her  head 
upon  them,  thought  and  thought.  Ah  !  no  one  knew 
what  those  twelve  long  years  had  been  to  Helena.  Always 
bright  and  cheerful  before  her  father  and  friends,  faithful  in 
her  church-work  and  social  relations,  but  always  taking  as 
retired  a  position  as  possible,  none  could  have  imagined 
the  intensity  of  the  hidden  sorrow  of  her  heart.  She  had 
acted  from  principle  in  breaking  off  her  engagement  with 
Ferdinand  after  his  views  towards  Christianity  had  become 
so  outre.  And  yet  how  often  the  agonizing  thought  pre- 
sented itself  that  possibly  she  had  done  wrong,  and  that  if 
she  had  married  him  she  might  have  influenced  him  to 
better  things. 

Before  the  articles  made  by  the  Soldier's  Aid  were 
packed,  Helena  had  placed  in  the  breast-pocket  of  the 
dressing-gown,  which  she  had  made  with  such  care,  an  en- 
velope containing  a  sonnet  she  had  composed  and  a  few 
large,  fresh,  purple  pansies,  carefully  pressed  and  tied  with 
violet  ribbon.  ' '  The  pansy  was  his  favorite  flower, ' '  she 
murmured.  She  blamed  herself  for  the  wild  idea  that 
Colonel  Carleton  would  ever  wear  her  dressing-gown,  or  if 
he  did  that  he  would  know  that  she  sent  it,  for  she  had 
signed  no  name  or  initials,  merely  dating  the  paper,  and 
putting  the  name  of  her  village  at  the  close  of  the  lines  she 
had  written.  The  next  week  the  barrels  were  on  their  way 
to  Washington. 

The  hollyhocks  withered,  the  asters  and  marigolds  hung 
their  frosted  heads,  and  the  flower-beds  looked  deserted, 
for  autumn  was  hastening  on  with  rapid  steps  towards  win- 
ter, and  still  the  cruel  war  continued,  and  Helena  Brayton 
heard  nothing  of  the  fate  of  the  dressing-gown. 


18* 


2IO  THE  SOLDIER  S   AID   SOCIETY. 

II. 

"  By  all  those  token  flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  ne'er  express  so  well." 

A  FEW  nights  after  the  battle  of  Bull  Run,  Ferdinand 
Carleton  and  his  partner  were  sitting  in  his  bachelor  apart- 
ments talking  over  the  alarming  condition  of  the  country. 
Both  were  smoking,  and  Carleton  held  in  his  hand  the 
New  York  Times. 

"Then  your  mind  is  made  up  positively  to  enlist,  is  it ?" 
asked  Mr.  Sedgwick. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  want  to  go  ;  life  isn't  any  too  interesting 
for  me  to  be  afraid  to  risk  losing  it." 

"That  is  absurd,  Carleton;  a  fellow  with  your  position 
and  talents  can  make  life  answer  all  his  desires.  You  could 
get  almost  any  of  the  girls  in  New  York  ;  and  you  ought 
to  be  married  any  way.  Mrs.  Sedgwick  says  so  ;  she  says 
you  are  just  the  man  to  make  any  girl  happy." 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  confirmed  old  bachelor.  I'll  be  forty  before 
long  if  I  don't  get  killed  in  the  war." 

"That's  just  it ;  you  have  no  time  to  lose,  and  ought  to 
see  about  making  some  girl  happy  right  away. ' ' 

Carleton  laughed  rather  bitterly,  and  then  as  Mr.  Sedg- 
wick rose  to  go  he  rose  also,  saying  he  would  go  part  way 
and  then  drop  in  at  the  club  and  have  a  game  of  billiards. 
As  they  passed  a  flower-stand  Carleton  stopped,  and  buy- 
ing a  bunch  of  roses,  he  asked  Mr.  Sedgwick  to  take  them 
to  his  wife  and  thank  her  for  her  good  opinion  of  him,  but 
to  tell  her  that  he  was  incorrigible  ;  and  then  selecting  for 
himself  a  few  rich  purple  pansies,  he  fastened  them  in  his 
button-hole,  and  bidding  his  partner  good-night,  he  went 
into  the  club.  He  sat  up  late  that  night  smoking  and 
thinking,  not  of  the  present  nor  the  future,  but  of  the  past : 
and  as  he  handled  the  now  withered  pansies,  he  thought  of 
a  sweet  young  girl  with  pansies  in  her  hair  and  at  her  belt, 
and  he  seemed  to  see  her  pinning  one  on  his  coat.  The 
next  week  he  joined  the  Seventh  Regiment.  Fortune 
favors  the  brave,  and  at  the  time  our  story  opens  he  had 
become  Colonel  Carleton. 

Helena  Brayton  had  seen  the  promotion  mentioned  in 
the  Boston  papers,  and  the  news  had  thrilled  her  with  love  ; 


THE  soldier's  AID   SOCIETY.  211 

but  she  thought  that  the  sensation  she  experienced  was 
merely  a  high  order  of  patriotism. 

One  night  after  a  fearful  battle  Colonel  Carleton  was 
bending  over  a  dying  comrade  who  lay  bleeding  on  the 
battle-field,  and  was  doing  all  in  his  power  to  alleviate  his 
friend's  suffering,  hoping  each  moment  that  an  ambulance 
would  come  to  convey  him  to  some  place  of  shelter. 

"Is  there  anything  more,  Hal,  that  I  can  do  for  you?" 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  colonel,  if  you  could  say  some  prayer  for  me  ;  my 
wife's  prayer-book  was  in  my  knapsack,  but  I  don't  know 
where  it  is  now  ;  but  you  can  say  one,  for  it's  growing  so 
dark  and " 

The  hot  blood  mounted  to  the  colonel's  forehead.  What 
prayers  did  he  know  ?  He  had  not  entered  a  church  since 
he  went  the  last  time  with  Helena,  and  had  ridiculed  the 
service  and  pained  her  tender  and  devout  heart.  What 
should  he  do  ?  He  dared  not  in  the  presence  of  the  angel 
Death,  tell  this  poor  fellow  that  prayer  was  useless,  as  he 
had  believed  for  years.  He  now  saw  by  a  strange,  inward 
light  that  his  own  life  had  been  one  great  mistake,  and  that 
he  himself  had  lived  and  believed  a  lie  for  years. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  feeling  truth  ;  Colonel  Carleton 
felt  it  that  night  ;  he  felt  an  invisible  presence  about  him  ; 
he  felt  that  God  was  Truth,  and  that  the  Truth  was 
God  ;  and  that  unbelief,  agnosticism,  and  atheism  were  the 
weapons  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness. 

"  Say  just  one,  colonel  ;  it  is  so  cold  and  dark,"  gasped 
the  dying  soldier  ;  and  in  the  silence  that  followed  his  last 
request  his  soul  was  called  home,  while  the  full  moon  shone 
down  upon  Ferdinand  Carleton  kneeling  by  a  dead  body. 

Helena  Bray  ton's  twelve  years  of  prayer  for  him  were 
beginning  to  find  their  fulfilment. 


212  THE  soldier's  AID   SOCIETY. 


III. 

"  There's  a  sweeter  flower  than  e'er 
Blushed  on  the  rosy  spray, — 
A  brighter  star,  a  richer  bloom 
Than  e'er  did  western  heaven  illume 
At  close  of  summer  day. 
'Tis  Love,  the  last,  best  gift  of  heaven ; 
Love  gentle,  holy,  pure." 

Mrs.  Pomroy,  the  head  nurse  of  the  Union  Hotel  Hos- 
pital at  Georgetown,  resolved  that  the  very  best  of  care 
must  be  given  to  Colonel  Carleton  for  several  reasons  :  in 
the  first  place  he  was  very  severely  wounded  and  needed 
extra  attention  ;  then  he  was  a  favorite  colonel  and  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  several  recent  battles,  and,  moreover, 
Mrs.  Pomroy  had  known  him  in  New  York  before  the 
war,  and  he  had  been  the  last  one  to  minister  to  her  dear 
brother  Hal,  who  died  on  the  battle-field.  All  these 
reasons  prompted  her  to  feel  great  interest  in  him,  although 
she  would  not  have  neglected  any  other  patient  for  him 
who  needed  her. 

' '  When  do  you  suppose  I  can  sit  up,  Mrs.  Pomroy  ?' ' 
asked  the  colonel  one  day  ;  "it  seems  as  if  I  had  been 
lying  here  forever." 

' '  Very  likely  you  can  to-morrow,  colonel  ;  and  a  box  of 
goods  was  sent  us  from  Washington  to-day,  and  I  have 
selected  a  love  of  a  dressing-gown  from  it  for  you.  Would 
you  not  like  to  see  it  ?' '  she  asked,  hoping  it  would  rouse 
his  interest. 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  would,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  did  not 
suppose  you  would  let  me  sit  up  this  week." 

Mrs.  Pomroy  went  to  the  store-room,  and  returned  with 
a  package  done  up  in  soft  tissue-paper  and  laid  it  upon  the 
bed. 

"Now  I  must  leave  you,"  she  said,  pleasantly,  "and 
you  can  admire  it  until  you  fall  asleep." 

As  Colonel  Carleton  feebly  unwrapped  the  tissue-paper 
a  delicate  perfume  was  perceptible,  and  a  strange  thrill 
seemed  to  run  through  his  heart.  ' '  She  always  used  such 
faint,  dainty  perfumes,"  he  thought.  As  he  removed  the 
last  wrapping  he  exclaimed,  "It  is  just  like  the  one  she  saw 


THE  soldier's  AID  SOCIETY.  213 

me  have  on  that  morning  when  her  father  was  so  ill  and 
she  was  so  worried. ' ' 

Involuntarily  he  slipped  his  hand  into  the  inner  breast- 
pocket and  drew  out  an  envelope,  directed  in  the  hand- 
writing he  used  to  know  so  well, — "For  a  wounded 
soldier."  Trembling,  he  broke  the  seal,  and  taking  out 
the  letter  unfolded  it ;  as  he  did  so  there  dropped  out  three 
purple  pansies  ;  on  the  violet  ribbon  with  which  they  were 
tied  was  inscribed  with  gold  letters  the  meaning  of  the 
word  pansy, — "  Pensez  a  mot.'" 

The  tears  sprung  to  his  eyes,  for  he  was  weak  and  ill, 
and  the  emotions  are  not  under  control  at  such  times.  He 
pressed  the  pansies  to  his  lips,  and  then  smoothing  out  the 
sheet  of  paper,  read  the  following  lines  : 

"FIGHT   THE    GOOD   FIGHT   OF   FAITH." 

The  world  may  well  be  called  a  battle-field, 
And  life  is  one  great  strife  to  win  a  crown ; 
But  not  the  hope  of  fickle  earth's  renown 

Inspires  true  heroes  not  to  faint  nor  yield 

E'en  if  the  foe  a  mighty  weapon  wield  ; 

For  heavenly  music  can  earth's  war-cries  drown, 
Or  change  to  smiles  the  tyrant's  cruel  frown. 

And  he,  who  at  the  Throne  of  Grace  hath  kneeled 

To  learn  the  secrets  of  Eternal  Love, 
Cares  not  to  win  a  diadem  of  gold. 

But  like  a  loyal  soldier,  brave  and  true, 

Obeys  the  Captain's  orders  from  above, 
And  armed  with  Faith  and  Truth  may  well  be  bold, 
For  when  the  campaign's  o'er  the  Crown  is  sure. 
Deering,  September  13. 

"  Why,  colonel,  what  makes  your  pulse  so  rapid  to- 
night? and  what's  the  meaning  of  all  this  fever?  Indeed  I 
cannot  let  you  sit  up  to-morrow,"  said  the  surgeon  as  he 
stopped  on  his  evening  rounds, 

"Oh,  but  I  really  feel  better,  doctor,"  said  the  colonel, 
"and  I  am  very  anxious  to  begin  to  sit  up." 

"Well,  well,  we'll  see,"  said  the  surgeon. 

* '  I  want  to  send  a  despatch  to-night,  doctor  ;  if  I  write  it 
now  will  you  take  it  ?' '  asked  the  patient. 

' '  Certainly  ;  but  you  had  better  let  me  write  it  for  you, 
colonel." 


214  THE   soldier's   AID   SOCIETY. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  let  me  try." 

"Well,  here  is  paper  and  pencil;  but  I  think  that  arm 
is  too  weak  ;  if  you  can't  do  it,  I  will." 

The  physician  thought  to  himself  that  there  certainly  was 
a  lady  in  the  case,  and  if  so,  that  would  account  for  the  ex- 
cited condition  of  his  patient. 

The  next  morning  when  Mr.  Brayton  and  his  daughter 
were  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table,  a  servant  brought  in  a 
telegram  directed  to  "Miss  Helena  Brayton."  It  ran 
thus  : 

"Union  Hotel  Hospital,  Georgetown,  D.  C, 
"  November  lo,  1862. 

"  The  dressing-gown  has  come.  I  shall  enlist  under  the  banner  of 
your  Captain.     Will  you  come  and  help  me? 

"Ferdinand  Carleton." 

This  accounts  for  the  fact  that  the  wedding  of  the  sedate 
Helena  Brayton  took  place  in  the  dreary  hospital  at 
Georgetown. 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

One  warm  November  day,  some  five-and-twenty  years 
ago,  I  was  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  smoking  my  cigar  late  at 
night  in  one  of  the  cottages  at  Key  West  Barracks.  Our 
little  command  had  just  returned  from  our  summer  camp 
on  Indian  Key,  an  island  of  the  Florida  reef  not  over  half  a 
mile  in  circumference,  where  we  spent  seven  long  months 
to  avoid  the  yellow  fever,  which  was  raging  at  Key  West 
all  summer.  How  weary  we  grew  of  our  narrow  confines, 
and  how  beautiful  and  wide  the  world  seemed  to  me  that  day  ! 
But  the  excitement  of  landing  and  seeing  the  men  safely 
housed  in  their  barracks  was  over  now,  and  I  sat  alone  with 
my  thoughts  ;  the  other  officers  and  the  ladies  of  the  garri- 
son had  gone  to  an  entertainment  given  at  the  hotel  in  the 
city  by  the  naval  officers  of  the  ships  that  had  just  been  re- 
leased from  their  summer  quarantine  at  Sand  Key  light. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  my  birthday,  and  I  was  turn- 
ing over  in  my  hands,  thoughtfully  and  sadly,  a  letter 
which  I  had  just  received,  then  tossed  it  on  the  table  with  a 
sigh.  In  the  succession  of  hard  puffs  at  my  cigar  that  fol- 
lowed, the  words  of  the  old  song  in  the  opera  "  Der 
Trompeter  von  Sakkingen' '  came  to  me  : 

"  Das  ist  das  End  vom  Lied. 
Das  end  vom  alten  Liede, 
Mir  fallt  kein  neues  ein, 
Als  schweigen  und  vergessen, 
Und  wann  vergass  ich  dein?" 

The  house  I  was  in  was  at  the  time  the  quarters  of  my 
friend  Lieutenant  Jack  Villiers,  who  had  asked  me  to  share 
it  with  him  till  I  had  quarters  assigned  me.  The  cottages 
of  the  garrison  are  five  in  number,  three  on  one  side  of  the 
parade,  two  on  the  other,  and  those  on  the  same  side  are 
separated  by  considerable  distances,  with  large  grounds 
about  them,  so  that  they  stand  quite  alone.     Each  cottage 

215 


2l6  A   PITIFUL   SURRENDER. 

is  entirely  surrounded  by  a  wide  piazza,  and  the  stairs  to 
the  bedrooms  run  up  from  the  piazza,  outside  the  rooms  on 
the  first  floor,  to  a  little  landing  which  opens  into  a  narrow 
hall,  on  either  side  of  which  the  bedrooms  are  situated. 
The  drawing-room  has  several  sliding  doors  with  glass 
windows  (windows  and  doors  are  one  on  the  lower  floor), 
and  as  I  took  the  last  pufl"  at  my  cigar  I  could  hear  the 
"  Norther"  that  was  coming  up  shake  the  doors  and  make 
them  rattle  as  if  to  try  them,  and  I  could  see  the  moonlight 
straying  through  and  playing  fitfully  on  the  floor ;  the 
banyan-tree  without,  as  it  nestled  close  up  to  the  eaves  to 
get  out  of  the  cold,  was  sighing  deeply,  too. 

Suddenly  my  eyes  were  held  by  a  large  photograph 
hanging  before  me  on  the  wall,  only  dimly  visible  in  the 
pale  lamplight.  It  was  one  of  those  faces  that  fix  the 
attention  at  once  and  are  never  forgotten, — a  dark  com- 
plexion, nearly  black  hair,  large,  poetic  eyes,  with  a  soft 
look  that  is  enhanced  in  effect  by  long  lashes,  a  delicately 
chiselled  outline,  and  a  straight  nose,  but  a  mouth  wherein 
the  lines  are  weak  and  wavering.  The  eyes  are  the  fasci- 
nating element,  yet  even  in  them  there  lurks  an  effect  not 
quite  agreeable,  a  something  that  attracts  and  yet  repels, — 
one  cannot  help  looking,  and  yet  one  longs  for  the  freer 
air, — like  the  poor  bird  under  the  gaze  of  the  serpent. 

A  gust  of  wind  outside  disturbed  my  thoughts,  and  I 
rose  and  tried  to  shake  off"  a  feeling  of  gloom  and  sad- 
ness, but  the  dark  eyes  followed  me  about  the  room.  I 
felt  uncomfortable  and  touched  the  bell.  Gus,  our  mulatto 
boy  from  the  Bahamas,  answered,  and  I  asked  him  various 
questions  about  the  pictures  in  the  room,  but  avoided  the 
photograph,  hoping  he  would  speak  of  that  of  his  own  accord, 
but  his  eyes  never  rested  on  it.  Once,  when  I  questioned  him 
about  a  Venetian  water-color  hanging  next  to  it,  I  thought 
I  detected  a  little  tremor  in  his  voice  and  a  frightened  look 
on  his  face,  but  only  for  an  instant.  He  talked  freely  about 
the  other  pictures,  little  incidents  connected  with  them, 
some  of  his  own  experience  (for  he  had  been  with  ViUiers 
a  long  time),  some  that  Villiers  himself  had  related,  but  he 
passed  over  the  photograph  as  if  it  were  not  hanging  there 
at  all.  I  dismissed  him  to  his  home,  a  little  shanty  outside 
the  reservation,  where  he  lived  with  his  aged  mother,  and 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  217 

I  was  once  more  alone  with  the  weird  eyes  of  the  photo- 
graph. 

I  felt  more  and  more  uncomfortable,  and,  as  it  was  grow- 
ing late,  I  started  for  my  bedroom,  the  dark  eyes  following 
my  every  movement  as  I  went  out  through  the  door,  cold 
shivers  running  through  me  as  I  mounted  the  stairs  leading 
up  from  the  piazza,  startled  occasionally  by  a  moan  and  a 
sigh  from  the  banyan-tree.  I  lay  awake  for  some  time,  that 
face  visible  wherever  the  shadows  fell,  but,  finally  worn  out, 
I  was  about  to  sink  into  sleep  when  a  clock  began  to  strike 
the  midnight  hour. 

Hark  !  what  is  that  ?  At  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock  I 
heard  something  like  footsteps  on  the  piazza,  then  shoes 
creaking  as  if  about  to  mount  the  stairs.  I  counted  the 
steps  ;  slowly  and  deliberately  some  one  was  coming  np, 
pit,  pat,  pit,  pat, — thirteen  !  The  shoes  creaked  on  the 
landing,  and  I  half  rose  in  bed  and  peered  into  the  moon- 
light to  see  who  had  come  at  that  late  hour  (for  Villiers 
said  he  was  going  to  stay  all  night  with  one  of  the  naval 
officers,  so  it  could  not  be  he).     Nobody  appeared. 

I  rose,  slipped  on  a  loose  robe  and  a  pair  of  slippers,  and 
went  out  on  the  landing  ;  the  banyan-tree  was  still  sighing 
and  moaning,  the  moon  yet  bathed  the  landscape  in  a  flood 
of  pale,  yellow  light,  the  wind  was  trying  the  glass  doors 
more  and  more  impatiently,  and  the  air  had  grown  very 
chill.  I  crept  down  and  walked  round  the  entire  piazza, 
but  there  was  nothing  living  visible.  I  entered  the  dining- 
room,  and  there  in  the  moonlight,  that  touched  them  with 
an  unearthly  light,  there,  gazing  at  me  still,  were  the 
strange  eyes  as  I  had  left  them,  but  the  lips  seemed  to 
smile,  grim  and  ghastly.  I  touched  the  gilt  frame  that 
surrounded  it,  to  make  sure  it  was  all  a  reality  ;  then  trem- 
blingly sought  my  couch  once  more  (counting  the  steps  as 
I  mounted  them,  hoping  there  were  more  or  less,  yet  know- 
ing in  my  inmost  soul  that  there  were  just  thirteen,  though 
I  had  never  counted  them  before)  to  sleep  a  broken  sleep. 

The  wind  was  blowing  hard  when  I  rose,  and  felt  very 
cold  to  one  accustomed  for  some  time  to  continual  Indian- 
summer  weather  ;  but  in  the  sun,  or  in  a  place  protected 
from  the  wind,  it  was  still  warm,  so  I  dressed  as  usual  in 
white  summer  clothing  and  a  straw  hat,  but  put  on  my 
K  19 


2l8  A   PITIFUL   SURRENDER. 

overcoat  as  a  protection  against  the  cold  north  wind,  and 
then  walked  down  the  road  to  the  little  cottage  where  Mrs. 
Mitchell,  the  wife  of  a  sergeant  who  had  died  of  yellow 
fever  a  few  years  previous,  kept  our  small  mess  of  three. 
There  I  found  the  doctor  and  Villiers  already  at  breakfast, 
and  the  former,  after  greeting  me,  remarked  that  I  looked 
pale.  I  merely  smiled,  but  Villiers,  taking  a  better  look 
at  me,  cried  out, — 

' '  By  Jove,  old  fellow,  you  must  have  been  celebrating 
all  by  yourself  last  night ;  did  you  have  a  birthday,  or" 
(more  gently  and  in  a  low  tone)  ' '  did  she  fall  to  lead  the 
card  you  wanted,  merely  making  what  Mac  used  to  call, 
when  he  led  the  lowest  card  of  his  weakest  suit,  a  tentative 
playf 

"Both,  Jack,  both  ;  but  my  paleness  is  not  due  to  either 
of  these  causes,"  I  replied,  laughing,  and  perhaps  blushing  a 
little,  too,  for  Jack  knew  all  my  secrets.  "  I  had  a  strange 
experience  last  night,"  I  added,  more  seriously,  for  the 
feeling  which  the  face  in  the  photograph  and  the  footsteps 
on  the  stairs  had  inspired  was  not  yet  quite  gone. 

The  doctor  whistled  and  said,  "Go  on,"  as  if  he  half 
knew  what  was  coming.  So  I  related  my  experiences  in 
full.  Jack  became  pale  and  thoughtful  as  I  proceeded,  with 
a  pained  expression  on  his  face,  which  was  occasionally  re- 
lieved by  a  bright  and  happy  smile  playing  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  followed  always  by  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  while 
the  doctor  gravely  observed  me  as  if  he  were  studying  a 
patient. 

When  I  concluded,  the  doctor  began,  banteringly, — 

"How  many  of  Jack's  so-called  Havanas  did  you 
smoke  ?' ' 

But  Jack  interrupted  him  :  ' '  Doctor,  I  am  afraid  this  is 
a  little  beyond  the  realm  of  medicine  ;  the  photograph  has 
its  history,  and,  as  to  the  strange  sounds,  they  are  sup- 
posed to  be  the  ghost  of  dear  old  Floyd,  whom  Mrs. 
Mitchell,  by  her  excellent  nursing,  pulled  through  the 
yellow  fever  one  summer.  Ah,  Mrs.  Mitchell,  perhaps  it 
had  been  better  had  you  been  a  poorer  nurse  !"  To  which 
she  nodded  assent  and  turned  away  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
' '  But  now,  let  Will  go  up  to  the  post,  doctor,  in  your  am- 
bulance,  which   is   standing   at  the  door,   and  mount  his 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  219 

guard  (if  it  is  not  too  late  already),  and  after  office-hours 
meet  us  at  my  quarters  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the 
photograph." 

I  hurried  off,  but  found  the  guard  already  mounted  when 
I  arrived  ;  and  so,  chagrined  and  angry  with  myself,  I  re- 
ported to  the  commanding  officer  that  I  had  missed  my 
duty,  but  he  assumed  that  there  was  some  special  reason 
for  my  neglect  and  smiled  away  my  own  displeasure. 
When  I  reached  the  house,  after  the  morning's  work  was 
over,  Villiers  and  the  doctor  were  already  comfortably  set- 
tled in  their  chairs  in  the  library,  before  the  photograph. 
I  glanced  at  it  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  dread,  and 
sat  down  with  them.     Villiers  then  proceeded  with  his  tale  : 

"  Before  I  went  to  the  Point  I  attended  the  High  School 
in  Saint  Louis,  and  among  my  companions  was  a  young 
man,  named  Pierre  Rossignol,  a  very  pleasant  playmate, 
always  ready  for  any  amusement,  generous  in  a  way,  free 
with  his  money  when  he  had  any,  and  altogether  a  good 
fellow  and  a  favorite  with  all.  He  was  extremely  hand- 
some, dark,  straight  as  an  arrow,  tall  and  well-propor- 
tioned, with  fine-cut  features  and  soft  eyes  with  long  eye- 
lashes (giving  him  a  gentle  and  sympathetic  expression), 
and  a  great  beau  among  the  fair  sex.  Some  days  he  would 
have  his  pockets  full  of  small  change,  at  other  times  he 
seemed  really  hungry  as  he  munched  the  buns  given  him 
at  luncheon  :  I  remember  it  struck  me  as  strange  at  the 
time. 

' '  But,  for  all  his  good  qualities  and  his  popularity,  it  was 
evident  to  the  most  casual  observer  that  he  usually  had 
what  he  wanted,  that  some  one  was  continually  doing  some- 
thing or  other  for  him,  and  that  he  was  petted  and  spoiled  ; 
he  received  these  attentions  as  if  they  were  his  due  ;  in- 
deed, there  was  always,  about  everything  he  did,  an  element 
of  selfishness.  But,  as  he  was  good-natured  and  apparently 
anxious  to  please,  most  of  the  boys  in  their  generosity  for- 
gave him,  if,  indeed,  they  ever  observed  this  characteristic 
of  his  at  all. 

"He  was  very  visionary  in  his  ideas  about  his  future, 
and  spoke  as  if  he  expected  some  day  to  have  a  great  for- 
tune ;  and  this  impression  among  us,  regarding  his  pros- 
pects, was  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  in  speaking  one 


220  A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

day  about  the  dancing-school  he  attended,  he  let  fall  some 
remarks  which  indicated  that  he  was  already  quite  familiar 
with  the  gaming-table  (he  evidently  spent  his  evenings 
after  dancing-school  there),  which  to  us  seemed  a  great 
thing  at  that  time  and  only  possible  for  very  rich  people. 

' '  Altogether  he  was  an  interesting  character.  The  first 
impression  he  produced  was  always  good,  yet  he  never 
seemed  to  care  to  take  advantage  of  his  powers  of  fascina- 
tion, but  rather  gave  an  impression  of  indifference.  After 
I  left  home  I  often  wondered  how  the  world  would  go  with 
him,  until  one  day,  about  two  years  ago,  what  was  my 
astonishment,  when,  while  I  was  sitting  here  in  my  chair 
thinking  about  him,  he  suddenly  appeared  in  the  door- way 
there  ! 

' '  We  greeted  each  other  cordially,  and  then  I  noticed  a 
female  figure  behind  him,  and  he  turned  and  introduced  his 
wife  ;  he  added  that  he  was  on  his  wedding-tour,  and  was 
going  over  to  Havana,  and  then  to  New  York.  The 
steamer,  he  said,  would  lie  at  the  wharf  in  Key  West  till 
early  in  the  morning. 

' '  Floyd  was  here  with  me  and  took  the  greatest  fancy  to 
my  former  school-mate  and  at  once  engaged  him  in  con- 
versation, while  I  chatted  with  Mrs.  Rossignol.  She  was 
a  charming  character,  very  young,  almost  a  child,  with 
light  golden  hair  and  clear  blue  eyes, — so  clear  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  look  into  them, — with  a  frank  and  confiding 
way  about  her  that  won  my  poor  heart  at  once." 

"  'Just  a  mere  child  with  sudden  ebullitions, 
Flashes  of  fun,  and  little  bursts  of  song. 
Petulant  pains,  and  fleeting  pale  contritions, 

Mute  little  words  of  misery  and  wrong  ; 
Only  a  child  of  Nature's  rarest  making, 
Wistful  and  sweet, — and  with  a  heart  for  breaking  !'  " 

quoted  the  doctor.     "  Does  that  paint  the  picture  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  applies  very  well,"  continued  ViUiers  ;  "  but 
she  seemed  to  have  withal  a  sort  of  dread  of  her  husband 
that  was  noticeable  whenever  he  addressed  her,  or  when- 
ever I  asked  any  questions  relating  to  him,  which  naturally 
roused  my  sympathy.  However,  she  seemed  to  be  fond  of 
him  too,  and  he  was  very  kind  to  her. 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  221 

"Towards  evening  we  sauntered  down  the  beach,  Floyd 
and  Rossignol  going  on  ahead,  Floyd  telling  me  in  a  low 
tone  as  he  passed  that  I  would  find  them  at  Captain  Jack's  ; 
I  walked  with  Mrs.  Rossignol,  and  I  shall  never  forget  that 
walk.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  the  pure  white  coral 
sand  was  packed  hard  and  firm  where  the  tide  had  gone 
out,  the  setting  sun  throwing  a  rosy  veil  over  sky  and 
water  and  beach.  We  sauntered  along  slowly,  picking  up 
a  bright-colored  shell  now  and  then,  or  watching  a  hermit 
crab  secrete  himself  in  his  stolen  home,  or  a  fiddler  crab 
dancing  his  sidewise  jig.  I  took  her  to  the  edge  of  the 
water  and  showed  her,  just  covered  by  the  water  at  low 
tide,  a  sea  anemone  clinging  to  the  rock,  with  all  its  beauti- 
ful, delicately-colored  tendrils  displayed.  She  took  the 
greatest  delight  in  all  these  little  things,  and  to  me  they 
acquired  an  interest  such  as  they  had  never  possessed  be- 
fore, and  which  they  have  preserved  ever  since. 

"  Finally,  we  stood  on  the  wharf  at  the  steamer-landing, 
and  she  looked  up  with  a  start.  Then  she  held  out  her 
hand  very  simply  and  naturally.  'Thank  you,'  she  said; 
'  it  seems  hard  to  believe  that  you  are  all  real  here,  and 
that  this  is  not  a  fairy  island  in  this  beautiful  pale-green  sea. 
I  have  been  so  happy  !'  Doctor,  you  may  smile,  but  I 
confess,  when  the  coldness,  the  selfishness,  the  uncharitable 
spirit  of  this  world  has  at  times  embittered  my  heart,  I 
have  remembered  her  and  felt  that  it  is  still  beautiful  and 
good. 

"  I  did  not  go  to  Captain  Jack's  :  I  was  not  in  the  mood. 
I  went  slowly  back  as  we  had  come.  When  I  retired  for 
the  night,  Floyd  had  not  yet  come  home.  I  lay  awake 
thinking  over  the  strange  events  of  the  day,  and  did  not 
fall  asleep  till  towards  morning.  I  was  awakened  by  a 
sharp  report  near  by,  and  jumped  up  and  hurried  across  to 
Floyd's  room  (the  one  overhead,  where  you  slept  last 
night.  Will),  and  found  Floyd  on  the  floor  in  the  corner,  a 
smoking  revolver  in  his  hand.  He  did  not  speak  again. 
Next  day  I  learned  that  he  had  lost  heavily  to  Rossignol ; 
and  In  the  evening  came  this  photograph  of  my  former 
school-mate.     The  tale  is  told. 

' '  Yesterday  was  the  anniversary  of  that  eventful  day, 
and  a  year  ago  I  experienced  just  such  a  night  as  you  did 

19* 


222  A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

last  night ;  that  is  the  reason  I  remained  down-town  yester. 
day.     I  did  not  suppose  that  it  would  affect  you. ' ' 

Nearly  two  years  had  passed  since  those  November  days 
at  Key  West,  and  I  was  enjoying  a  tramp  in  the  Black 
Forest  during  my  summer  leave  of  absence.  I  had  left 
Villiers  at  Baden-Baden  because  he  preferred  to  be  in  the 
crowd  at  the  Conversations  Haus.  One  day,  as  I  returned, 
tired  and  dusty,  from  a  two-days'  walk  over  the  Kniebis, 
the  Triberg,  and  the  Kandel,  to  Freiberg,  which  I  used  as 
a  centre  from  which  to  radiate  on  my  various  excursions,  I 
concluded,  instead  of  going  to  my  rooms,  to  get  a  mug  of 
beer  and  some  supper  in  the  little  garden  of  the  Alte 
Burse,  a  restaurant  much  frequented  by  the  German  offi- 
cers, partly  because  the  beer  was  good,  and  partly  because 
it  was  served  by  a  very  pretty  bar-maid, — die  Hebe  Marie, 
as  we  called  her  when  she  was  good  enough  to  come  to 
our  table  and  chat  with  us  a  while. 

I  sat  down  at  a  table  in  the  far  corner  of  the  garden  with 
a  young  artillery  officer  and  a  student  of  the  university, 
both  of  whom  I  had  known  for  some  time.  We  talked 
gayly  for  a  while,  but  when  my  supper  came  the  others 
bade  me  good-night.  The  garden  had  filled  up  gradually 
since  my  arrival,  and  almost  every  seat  was  taken  except 
those  at  my  table.  I  had  just  finished  eating,  when  a  man 
dressed  in  rather  a  shabby  suit  of  clothes  sat  down  at  my 
table  and  called  for  a  glass  of  beer  in  German  that  had  a 
decided  English  accent.  I  did  not  notice  him  much  at 
first,  but  after  a  time  it  struck  me  that  there  was  something 
familiar  about  his  face,  and  I  could  not  help  glancing  at  him 
occasionally.  What  was  it  that  made  me  feel  so  uncom- 
fortable as  I  looked  at  him  ?  My  interest  grew  deeper, 
and  finally,  as  his  eyes  met  mine,  I  could  scarcely  suppress 
an  exclamation,  for  surely  I  had  seen  those  eyes  before, 
and  under  circumstances  not  altogether  pleasant, — soft, 
dark  eyes  they  were,  and  I  became  nervous  under  their 
gaze.     But  I  could  not  recall  the  man. 

Marie  came  up  and  asked  me  how  I  enjoyed  my  supper, 
and  after  a  few  pleasant  words  and  a  "  dynamic  glance"  or 
two,  such  as  only  a  bar-maid  who  has  been  to  Kissengen 
and  Carlsbad  can  give,  and  which  is  even  then  vouchsafed 
only  to  those  who  give  Trink-geld  in  American  fashion, 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  223 

she  started  away  to  refill  my  beer-mug.  It  may  have 
been  my  imperfect  German,  or  my  English  clothes,  or  my 
apparent  good  nature,  or  perhaps  the  combination  of  all 
these,  that  induced  my  neighbor  to  open  the  conversation  ; 
at  any  rate,  he  did  so,  remarking  in  English  : 

"  This  out-door  life  of  the  Germans  and  the  simplicity  of 
their  enjoyments  have  a  great  attraction  for  me.  Do  you 
not  find  it  an  agreeable  change  from  our  hurried  existence 
at  home  ?' ' 

"  Yes,"  I  replied  ;  "it  must  be  particularly  so  to  a  busi- 
ness man,  or  any  one  confined  all  day  to  his  office.  I  met 
such  a  one  the  other  day  who  was  so  delighted  to  be  over 
here  out  of  the  reach  of  telegrams  !" 

"I  find  it  so,"  he  said;  "my  brewery  keeps  me  very 
much  occupied,  because  it  has  grown  enormously  of 
late. ' ' 

Under  the  long,  dark  lashes  I  could  see  that  his  eyes 
wandered  a  little  as  he  made  this  remark,  and  did  not  look 
at  me.  We  conversed  for  some  time,  and  he  grew  more 
and  more  enthusiastic  about  the  brewery.  Suddenly  he 
asked  me  : 

"  What  is  your  business?  Or  are  you  merely  travelling 
for  pleasure  ?' ' 

"  I  am  in  the  army,  and  am  taking  a  little  vacation." 

"  Ah  !  Have  you  ever  met  my  friend, — my  school-mate, 
— Lieutenant  Villiers?" 

My  heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment.  I  could  hear 
the  banyan-tree  moaning  and  the  north  wind  shaking  the 
glass  doors.  It  was  he  of  the  photograph,  and  its  strange, 
fascinating  eyes  were  gazing  into  mine  in  real  life  ! 

It  was  soms  time  before  I  could  collect  my  thoughts. 
My  neighbor  grew  more  confidential  when  I  told  him  that 
Villiers  was  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  and  finally  confided 
to  me  that  he  was  there  to  purchase  the  secret  for  making  the 
very  beer  we  were  drinking.  The  arrangements,  he  told 
me,  were  almost  completed,  but  he  found  himself  short  of 
money,  and  could  not  at  once  pay  certain  little  fees  and 
incidental  expenses  connected  therewith,  and  yet  he  did  not 
like  to  leave  without  completing  the  purchase.  He  added 
that  if  I  could  let  him  have  fifty  marks  temporarily  he  would 
settle  the  matter  that  evening.     I  gave  him  the  money,  and 


224  A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

he  took  down  my  address.     After  a  little  general  conversa- 
tion he  departed. 

Next  day  I  went  back  to  Baden-Baden  and  found  Villiers 
at  the  Victoria.  I  did  not  tell  him  of  the  meeting  at  Frei- 
burg. In  the  afternoon  we  took  a  stroll  out  through  the 
Lichtenthaler  Alice,  and  returned  past  the  Conversations 
Haus  on  our  way  towards  the  Promenaden  Platz,  when,  as 
we  passed  theTrink  Halle,  opposite  the  Hotel  de  1*  Europe, 
I  saw  on  the  corner  balcony  of  the  first  etage  of  the  hotel 
what  looked  like  the  figure  of  Rossignol,  dressed  just  as 
he  was  when  I  met  him.  Villiers  was  in  a  brown  study, 
staring  straight  ahead,  so  he  observed  nothing ;  and  as  I 
had  thrown  aside  my  tramping-costume  and  had  donned 
my  morning  suit,  there  was  no  danger  of  my  being  recog- 
nized, so  I  looked  hard  at  the  balcony  and  the  figure  there. 
Yes,  it  was  certainly  he.  While  I  was  wondering  if  he 
could  be  there  all  alone,  a  female  figure  appeared  behind 
him,  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  my  question  was  answered. 
We  walked  on,  Villiers  and  I,  and  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing how  strange  it  was  that  she,  whom  Villiers  was  proba- 
bly at  that  moment  thinking  of,  but  supposed  far  away  over 
the  sea,  whom  he  had  known  but  a  short  afternoon  on  a 
certain  coral-beach  in  a  far-off  land,  she  of  the  light  golden 
hair  and  deep  blue  eyes, — 

"Whose  voice,  attuned  above 
All  modulation  of  the  deep-bowered  dove, 
Is  like  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul," 

should  stand  there  on  the  balcony,  with  her  one-year-old 
baby,  thinking,  perhaps,  of  that  same  coral-beach  ! 

We  walked  home  almost  in  silence.  In  the  evening  I 
called  on  Mrs.  Rossignol,  sending  word  with  my  card  that 
I  was  a  friend  of  Lieutenant  Villiers.  She  received  me  at 
once,  and,  after  informing  me  that  her  husband  had  gone 
out  for  the  evening,  inquired  how  my  friend  was,  and  what 
was  he  doing,  and  was  he  happy  ?  She  spoke  of  her  visit 
to  Key  West  with  girlish  glee  ;  it  was  evidently  a  pleasant 
memory,  that  was  all.  But  was  it  all?  Why,  then,  that 
Httle  sigh,  and  why  are  the  beautiful  blue  eyes  dim  for  a 
moment ;  but,  above  all,  why  that  sad  look  in  the  eyes  of 
one  so  young  ?     I  learned  (what  I  particularly  wanted  to 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  225 

know)  that  they  had  only  recently  come  (from  Homburg 
von  der  Hohe,  I  think  it  was),  and  were  going  to  remain 
for  some  time.  I  determined  to  take  Villiers  to  Paris  in 
the  morning,  and,  after  a  brief  stay  there,  to  start  with  him 
for  home. 

On  my  way  to  my  rooms  I  concluded  that  I  would  first 
look  into  the  gaming-rooms,  and  so  turned  my  steps  in 
that  direction.  As  I  sauntered  through  the  long  rooms, 
glancing  along  the  line  of  faces  intent  upon  the  turn  of  a 
card,  or  the  whirl  of  a  wheel,  I  recognized,  at  one  of  the 
tables,  a  dark  face,  watching  eagerly  the  little  pile  of  gold 
pieces  in  front  of  him,  and,  as  he  raked  in  his  winnings 
with  his  thin  fingers  convulsively,  I  saw  him  pass  half  of 
them  to  his  neighbor,  a  lady,  deeply  veiled. 

I  passed  out  into  the  street  again.  A  light  was  still 
burning  in  the  corner  room  of  the  Hotel  de  1'  Europe,  and 
my  heart  went  out  to  her  who  sat  there  waiting,  to  her 
whose  thoughts  are  centred  in  the  little  cradle  there  in  the 
corner, — 

"Whose  endless  hopes  revolve  about 
A  planet,  cztat  one." 

On  a  cold  and  rainy  day  I  arrived  from  Lucerne  over  the 
Briinig  at  Interlaken ;  my  heaviest  overcoat  could  not  keep 
me  warm ;  I  walked  restlessly  up  and  down  the  Hoehen- 
weg  in  front  of  the  hotel ;  my  own  rooms  were  cold,  the 
smoking-room  was  cold,  the  reading-room  was  dreary, 
everybody  looked  depressed.  I  paid  my  bill,  intending 
to  go  to  Berne  on  the  evening  train, — anywhere  where  it 
was  warmer, — when  the  clerk  said, — 

* '  Stay  another  day  ;  there  was  a  fresh  fall  of  snow  on  the 
mountains  to-day,  and  it  will  be  clear  to-morrow," 

"Very  well,"  I  said  ;  "I'll  keep  my  rooms." 

Next  morning  when  I  awoke  the  sunlight  was  streaming 
through  the  window  ;  I  dressed  hurriedly  and  walked  out 
on  the  piazza.  There,  between  two  dark  precipices  of  the 
nearer  mountains,  stood  the  Jungfrau,  a  pure  mass  of 
the  purest,  whitest  snow,  glistening  in  the  sun.  Can 
anything  be  more  lovely  and  beautiful ! 

I  heard  an  exclamation  of  glad  surprise  behind  me,  and, 
turning,  found  myself  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Rossignol, 
/ 


226  A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

She  was  evidently  pleased  to  see  me,  and  I  confess  it  was 
a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  look  into  her  serene  blue  eyes 
again,  to  see  that  gentle  face  so  bright  in  its  loveliness,  to 
hear  her  low  sweet  voice  as  she  inquired  about  my  own 
doings  first,  and  then  about  Villiers.  They  had  never  met 
since  that  November  afternoon  on  the  beach  at  Key  West, 
yet  she  seemed  to  remember  him  as  if  it  had  been  but 
yesterday.  I  was  very  glad  he  had  decided  to  remain  in 
Baden-Baden. 

We  had  a  long  talk,  we  two,  in  the  sunlight,  there  before 
Nature's  great  masterpiece  of  scenery,  and  she  talked 
freely  about  herself  and  her  boy,  but  she  did  not  once  men- 
tion her  husband's  name.  Finally,  I  asked  her  how  long 
she  was  going  to  stay  in  Switzerland. 

"Oh,  why,  I  am  going  to  Paris  to-morrow,  and  then  to 
Havre,"  and  a  little  shadow  passed  over  her  face,  "  to  meet 
my  husband,  who  is  coming  back  on  the  French  steamer 
with  my  little  boy, ' '  and  then  the  shadow  passed  away  ; 
"he  has  been  on  a  short  visit  to  his  grandmother." 

Pretty  and  young  as  she  was,  there  was  a  something  in 
the  expression  of  her  face  that  spoke  of  deep,  deep 
thoughts  ;  ah,  yes,  life  was  not  all  she  had  pictured  it  in 
her  girlhood  days.  But  how  brave  she  was  !  Not  one 
word  of  complaint  or  regret ;  always  bright  and  cheerful. 
Even  as  I  stood  there,  thinking  of  all  this,  she  turned  with 
a  cry  of  delight,  caught  up  a  rosy-cheeked  boy  and  tossed 
him  up  and  caught  him  again,  then  ran  away  for  him  to 
catch  her  : 

"  I  know  the  children  run, 
Seeing  her  come,  for  naught  that  I  discover, 
Save  that  she  brings  the  summer  and  the  sun." 

That  night,  as  I  lay  in  bed  thinking  of  Rossignol,  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  not  let  Mrs.  Ros- 
signol travel  alone  with  her  maid  all  the  way  to  Havre,  and 
that  I  might  as  well  go  on  the  same  train  and  look  after  her 
welfare  a  little  without  appearing  to  do  so,  especially  as  I 
knew  full  well  that  this  trifling  act  of  kindness  would  greatly 
please  Villiers  if  he  ever  heard  of  it. 

She  did  not  seem  surprised  to  find  me  on  the  boat,  and 
we  had  a  charming  morning  for  our  journey  over  the  lake 
of  Thun,  and  then  the  train  hurried  us  along  on  our  way  to 


A   PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  227 

Paris.  There  I  learned  that  the  French  steamer  was  not 
due  for  another  day,  so  I  persuaded  Mrs.  Rossignol  to  stop 
over  for  a  few  hours  at  Rouen,  where  I  could  show  her  all 
the  places  of  interest,  as  I  had  once  spent  three  weeks 
there,  in  my  rambles,  with  a  young  architect  from  Phila- 
delphia ;  and  then  she  could  go  on  with  her  maid,  while  I 
would  look  up  my  old  friends  and  make  my  way  leisurely 
to  Baden-Baden. 

On  our  arrival  at  Rouen  we  started  at  once  for  St.  Ouen, 
but  in  the  square  around  the  cathedral  we  came  upon  a 
crowd  of  people,  through  which  it  was  difficult  to  find  our 
way.  Our  main  object  at  first  was  to  get  by  as  soon  as 
possible,  but  presently  we  heard  some  one  near  by  whisper 
breathlessly  to  his  neighbor  something  about  a  wreck.  We 
both  looked  up,  and  just  before  us  was  a  sailor  telling  a 
thrilling  tale  to  an  excited  little  group  of  listeners  about 
him.     We  instinctively  stopped  to  listen. 

"There  had  been  a  dense  fog  for  twenty-four  hours,"  he 
continued,  ' '  and  we  knew  we  were  near  the  entrance  to  the 
channel,  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Scilly  Islands, 
when  suddenly,  just  about  daybreak,  there  was  a  terrific 
crash,  and  a  rumbling  like  that  of  thunder,  and  we  sailors 
knew  that  she  was  on  the  rocks.  The  life-boats  were  manned 
at  once,  but  the  passengers  were  wild  with  excitement,  and 
men  and  women  jumped  into  the  water,  or  rushed  wailing 
and  crying  up  and  down  the  decks,  or  crowded  into  the 
boats,  all  in  the  greatest  confusion.  Soon  the  sea  was  alive 
with  human  beings  struggling  to  keep  afloat  by  swimming 
or  by  clinging  to  pieces  of  timber  floating  about." 

' '  What  became  of  Pourquie, ' '  some  one  asked  ;  "  is  he 
saved  ?' ' 

"Ah,  poor  Pourquie,"  said  the  sailor,  "we  have  made 
many  voyages  together,  but  that  was  the  last ;  yet  Rouen 
should  be  proud  of  her  townsman  Pourquie,  for  he  was  a 
noble  fellow.  There  was  among  the  passengers  a  little  boy 
with  blue  eyes  and  dark  hair ;  his  father  spent  much  of  his 
time  in  the  smoking-room,  so  the  little  fellow  was  always  on 
deck,  and  he  was  such  a  beautiful  child,  so  frank  and 
manly,  with  such  winning  ways  and  entirely  without  fear, 
that  the  sailors  all  loved  him,  and  on  fair  days,  when  the 
captain  would  let  them,  they  would  carry  him  up  into  the 


228  A   PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

rigging,  and  we  all  became  deeply  attached  to  the  little 
fellow.  When  the  ship  went  down  and  our  little  boat  had 
all  it  could  hold,  and  we  were  about  to  make  for  the  land, 
we  saw  Pourquie  in  the  water,  clinging  to  a  spar  with  one 
arm  and  holding  up  the  little  boy  with  the  other,  and  I 
heard  him  call  to  me  to  take  him,  but  he  sank  before  we 
could  reach  him,  and  little  Pierre  with  him  !" 

"Pierre!"  I  hear  a  wild  cry  at  my  side,  and  Mrs. 
Rossignol  lay  in  a  swoon. 

We  are  again  at  Baden-Baden,  Villiers  and  I,  enjoying 
the  beautiful  days  and  the  crowds  of  people  and  the  music. 
I  told  him  the  story  of  the  wreck,  and  how  we  had  heard 
it ;  but  I  did  not  tell  him  that  I  had  brought  Mrs.  Ros- 
signol to  Baden-Baden,  and  installed  her  in  her  old  rooms 
in  the  Hotel  de  1' Europe,  opposite  the  Trink  Halle.  Only 
a  few  passengers  on  the  French  steamer  had  been  saved 
out  of  the  wreck,  and  they  had  disappeared  to  their  several 
homes ;  and  although  Rossignol  and  little  Pierre  were 
reported  among  the  lost,  Mrs.  Rossignol  believed  her 
husband  still  alive. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  that  day  in  Rouen,  and  during  that  long  period  I  was 
almost  her  only  visitor.  She  kept  her  rooms,  and  lived 
very  quietly,  but  after  a  time  she  began  to  long  for  the  free 
air  again,  and  then  we  used  to  walk  up  to  the  old  castle  of 
an  afternoon,  at  first  only  occasionally,  but  soon  quite  regu- 
larly, almost  daily,  until  Villiers  (who  preferred  walking  on 
a  level  to  any  climbing)  began  to  wonder  how  any  one 
could  become  so  fond  of  that  old  castle. 

' '  Why  do  you  climb  that  hill  almost  every  afternoon, 
Will  ?  Ah,  I  see  !  there  is  some  Lorelei  on  the  rocks  up 
there." 

"Come  up  and  see  her.  Jack,  for  she  is  very  beautiful. 
You  drive  up  to  the  castle  to-morrow,  about  three,  and 
wait  for  me  there,  and  if  your  little  boat  isn't  a  wreck  on 
the  rocks  before  the  day  is  over,  while  you  are  absorbed  in 
watching  the  Lorelei  'combing  her  golden  hair,'  why,  I'll 
give  you  a  dinner  at  the  Cafe  Madrid,  out  in  the  Bois, 
when  we  go  to  Paris." 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  so  they  met.     Villiers  did  not 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  229 

know  that  he  really  loved  this  little  woman  with  the  light- 
golden  hair  until  they  met  again  :  it  seemed  before  as  if  he 
might  have  loved  her  had  he  met  her  long  before  that  walk 
on  the  beach,  so  that  her  memory  was  only  a  tender  regret, 
but  when  he  saw  her  face  to  face  he  knew.  And  she?  Ah, 
well  !  she  was  still  waiting  for  Rossignol  to  come  back. 
But  the  days  passed  by,  and  no  news  of  Rossignol  came. 
Villiers  was  very  gentle  and  delicate  in  his  quiet  devotion. 
At  first  he  met  us  just  a  little  way  below  the  castle  and 
walked  up  with  us  ;  then  he  would  meet  us  half-way  up  ; 
and  finally,  just  outside  the  hotel  (he  would  never  go  alone 
to  take  her  for  a  walk).  Both  believed  for  a  time  that  their 
interest  in  one  another  was  the  purest  friendship, — nothing 
more.  But  Villiers  was  the  first  to  be  undeceived  (by  my 
assistance,  of  course).  How  fond  he  had  suddenly  grown 
of  climbing  hills  !  So  the  days,  and  weeks,  and  months 
passed  by. 

But  now  I  could  see  that  Mrs.  Rossignol  was  making 
herself  very  unhappy,  and  then  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Jack 
one  day,  and  convinced  him  that  he  had  to  go  away,  for 
the  simple  reason  that,  as  Mrs.  Rossignol  believed  her  hus- 
band to  be  still  alive,  there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do  ; 
and  so  I  brought  him  home.  It  was  very  hard,  after  all 
the  bold  strategy  with  which  I  had  opened  the  campaign, 
and  the  fine  tactics  which  Villiers  had  displayed  on  the  field 
of  battle,  to  be  thus  forced  to  beat  a  hasty  and  ignominious 
retreat. 

The  following  year,  one  quiet,  peaceful,  sunshiny  Octo- 
ber day.  Jack  and  I  were  sitting  in  front  of  our  quarters  at 
Fort  Point  (near  San  Francisco),  the  little  house  down  by 
the  water's  edge,  there  where  the  waves,  turned  obliquely 
by  the  wall  of  the  fort  as  the  tide  rolls  in  through  the 
Golden  Gate,  curl  high  into  the  air. 

"  You  say  she  is  visiting  at  the  general's  in  the  Presidio  ?" 

"Yes;  the  general's  wife  used  to  know  her  at  home 
before  she  was  married. ' ' 

"Jack,  do  me  a  favor  and  call  there  this  afternoon  at 
three  o'clock.  I  will  drop  in  later  and  walk  home  with  you. 
I  want  you  to  do  this  for  a  particular  reason." 

' '  What  is  the  use.  Will  ?' '  said  Jack,  wearily  ;  * '  but  all 
right,  I'll  go." 

20 


230  A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER. 

At  about  a  quarter  after  three  I  was  ushered  into  the 
general's  drawing-room,  and  found  Mrs.  Rossignol  and 
Jack  talking  in  a  painfully  formal  way.  They  were  quite 
alone  in  the  room.  After  a  few  general  remarks  I  drew  my 
chair  between  them  and  said, — 

"  I  have  had  a  strange  experience." 

"What  was  it,  a  ghost?"  said  she. 

"  No,  but  something  more  wonderful.  You  know  when 
I  came  to  join  the  regiment  out  here  I  had  authority  to 
come  by  way  of  the  isthmus.  Well,  one  day  when  the  sea 
was  rather  rough,  the  captain  of  the  ship  and  I  began  talk- 
ing about  experiences  in  storms  and  shipwrecks,  and  he 
presently  remarked,  '  I  had  one  once  that  I  never  want  re- 
peated !  It  was  on  the  Scilly  Islands,  when  I  was  second 
officer  on  one  of  the  French  steamers  :  you  may  remember 
reading  about  it.'  He  gave  a  vivid  description  of  it  all, 
and  then  I  asked  him  if  he  remembered  a  man  named 
Rossignol  among  the  passengers. 

"'Yes,  very  well,'  he  said;  'he  was  in  the  card-room 
all  day  long  and  most  of  the  night,  and  the  betting,  as  you 
know,  often  runs  very  high,  but  he  was  very  bold  at  any 
game  and  seemed  to  care  for  nothing  else  ;  but  when  the 
crash  came  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  rush  for  the  boats. 
The  boat  he  was  in  was  crushed  in  the  excitement,  and  as 
my  boat  was  passing  along,  picking  up  the  men  and  women 
in  the  water  as  fast  as  we  could,  I  saw  him  ahead,  clinging 
to  a  spar,  a  sailor  at  the  other  end  of  it.  Near  by  another 
sailor  was  holding  up  his  little  boy,  Pierre,  and  crying  for 
help.  Rossignol  did  not  stir,  but  the  sailor  at  the  other 
end  of  the  spar  jumped  and  caught  the  boy  as  he  sank, 
then  swam  for  the  spar  again,  but  Rossignol  was  no  longer 
on  it  ;  his  hold  had  slipped  and  he  went  down,  and  did  not 
rise  again.  Before  we  could  reach  the  boy,  his  brave  pro- 
tector sank  away  exhausted,  caUing  to  one  of  the  men  in 
my  boat  with  his  latest  breath  not  to  mind  him  but  to  take 
the  boy,  but  we  were  too  late.'  " 

There  were  some  moments  of  silence,  and  then  the 
widow  rose  and  gave  both  her  hands  to  Jack  without  a 
word,  tears  filling  her  eyes,  and — I  retired.  The  campaign 
was  ended,  the  enemy  had  run  up  the  white  flag,  but  was 
it  not  a  pitiful  S7irrender  ? 


A  PITIFUL  SURRENDER.  23I 

Years  have  flown  by  since  then,  and  even  as  I  sit  here, 
in  my  old  bachelor  rooms,  Jack  and  his  wife  go  by  the 
window  smiling  into  each  other's  faces  ;  and  there  she  turns 
to  send  a  little  smile  in  my  direction,  for  she  knows  I  am 
sitting  here,  and  I  inwardly  bless  the  sunny  hair  and  the 
beautiful  blue  eyes. 

"Oh,  what  tears  have  they  shed,  gentle  eyes  !  Oh,  what  faith  has  it 
kept,  tender  heart !  If  love  lives  through  life,  and  survives  through 
all  sorrow,  and  remains  steadfast  with  us  through  all  changes,  and  in 
all  darkness  of  spirit  burns  brightly,  and  exists  with  the  very  last  gasp 
and  throb  of  the  faithful  bosom,  whence  it  passes  with  the  pure  soul, 
beyond  death,  surely  it  shall  be  immortal !" 


THE  STORY  OF  A  RECRUIT. 

The  Seminole  Indians  in  the  southern  part  of  Florida 
were  on  the  war-path.  Troops  were  ordered  to  concentrate 
at  Tampa,  where  an  expedition  was  being  organized  to  take 
the  field  against  them.  Recruits  were  wanted  to  fill  up 
Uncle  Sam's  depleted  ranks.  Here  was  an  opportunity  to 
win  rank,  honor,  and  fame.  I  went  to  a  recruiting-officer 
and  offered  myself  as  a  candidate  for  admission  into  Uncle 
Sam's  service.  Although  a  minor,  I  managed  to  overcome 
the  scruples  of  the  officer  through  the  assistance  of  his 
sergeant,  who  had  previously  posted  me  in  regard  to  age. 
I  was  then  sent  to  Governor's  Island,  and  donned  the 
"army  blue."  After  a  short  course  of  squad  drill  I  joined 
a  detachment  of  recruits  under  orders  for  Florida.  We 
embarked  on  a  sailing-vessel  for  Tampa,  and  after  encoun- 
tering heavy  storms  off  Cape  Hatteras  and  in  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  we  arrived  at  Tampa.  A  day's  rest  was  given  us, 
then  the  march  was  taken  up  for  the  interior,  to  the  camp 
of  the  company  we  had  been  assigned  to,  and  arrived  on 
New- Year's  day,  1850,  I  feeling  tired,  weary,  and  foot-sore. 

The  next  morning  we  were  marched  to  the  tent  of  the 
captain,  who  was  pacing  back  and  forth  in  front  of  it  with 
one  hand  behind  his  back,  holding  a  descriptive  list.  He 
was  waiting  to  have  a  look  at  his  new  recruits. 

The  calling  of  the  names  and  inspection  over,  he  made  a 
few  brief  remarks,  to  the  following  effect :  ' '  Those  who 
merit  good  treatment  shall  have  it  ;  and  those  that  do  not 
merit  it  will  surely  catch  the  devil,"  and  with  this  gentle 
reminder  we  were  dismissed. 

Although  a  recruit,  I  was  naturally  curious  about  the 
officer  to  whose  fostering  care  Uncle  Sam  had  transferred 
me.  During  the  inspection  he  impressed  me  as  being 
somewhat  of  a  martinet. 

He  was  about  fifty  years  of  age  and  over  six  feet  high. 
His  face  was  covered  with  a  stubby  beard  and  moustache, — 
not  much  of  the  face  to  be  seen  except  the  nose  and  sharp 
232 


THE   STORY   OF  A   RECRUIT.  233 

blue  eyes  looking  sternly  from  under  heavy  eyebrows.  He 
wore  a  faded  and  well-worn  uniform,  coat  buttoned  up  to 
the  chin,  and  underneath  a  high  stock.  The  shoulder- 
straps  were  in  keeping  with  the  coat,  on  which  were  faded 
gold  leaves  (brevet  major)  that  he  had  won  in  Mexico.  His 
long  legs  were  encased  in  tight-fitting,  coarse,  blue  pants, 
that  were  so  short  as  to  expose  the  gray  stockings  under  a 
pair  of  number  twelve  army  shoes  the  color  of  the  sandy 
soil  he  stood  on. 

The  * '  devil' '  was  the  most  emphatic  word  I  had  ever 
heard  him  utter,  and  with  all  his  apparent  sternness,  I  found 
him  to  be  a  kind,  just  officer. 

He  was  a  Georgian  by  birth,  a  graduate  at  West  Point, 
and  in  after-years  held  high  rank  in  the  Confederate  army. 
And,  in  after-years,  one  of  those  recruits  became  captain  of 
the  same  company  (C,  Seventh  Infantry).  Yes,  rank,  and 
the  honor  it  carries  with  it,  was  won. 

The  first  lieutenant  of  the  company  was  on  special  duty 
as  regimental  adjutant.  Staff  duties  of  regiments  were 
then  performed  by  lieutenants  detailed  from  companies, 
and  with  this  exception  and  that  of  recruiting  service,  all 
officers  were  with  their  companies.  The  last-named  duty 
was  reserved  for  first  lieutenants  only. 

The  second  lieutenant  (Henry)  was  an  old-time  discipli- 
narian. I  often  thought  the  captain  had  him  on  his  mind 
when  he  was  cautioning  some  delinquent  to  "beware  or 
he  would  surely  catch  the  devil."  Lieutenant  Henry  was 
once  a  recruit,  having  been  promoted  from  the  ranks  for 
conspicuous  bravery  in  the  Mexican  War.  The  regiment 
was  at  Point  Isabel  (now  Fort  Brown)  when  it  was  bombarded 
by  Mexican  troops.  The  stars  and  stripes  were  flying  de- 
fiantly on  the  flag-staffi  A  shot  from  the  guns  of  the  enemy 
cut  the  halyards,  and  the  flag  fell  to  the  ground, — an  ill 
omen  for  the  brave  commander.  Major  Brown,  who  fell 
soon  after  mortally  wounded.  Henry,  who  was  then  a  ser- 
geant, sprang  forward  and  picked  up  one  end  of  the  hal- 
yards, climbed  the  staff"  in  the  midst  of  a  storm  of  shot  and 
shell,  rove  them,  and  hoisted  the  flag  after  descending. 

Four  or  five  years  after,  Henry  got  into  some  trouble 
and  resigned,  went  to  Nicaragua  with  Walker,  the  filibuster, 
and  returned  to  New  Orleans  with  a  wooden  leg. 

20* 


234  THE  STORY  OF  A  RECRUIT. 

The  camp  was  situated  on  an  elevated  pinery  on  the  bank 
of  a  creek.  The  command  consisted  of  a  battalion  of  two 
companies  under  the  senior  officer, — the  captain  of  my  com- 
pany. The  officers'  tents  were  wall,  of  the  same  pattern  as 
are  now  in  use,  and  the  company  tents  common  A,  pitched 
or  raised  on  log  frames  about  three  feet  high,  with  plenty 
of  space  between  them  for  ventilation. 

A  smooth-bore  musket  with  twenty  rounds  of  buck  and 
ball  cartridges  and  equipments  was  issued  to  each  of  us. 
We  were  then  turned  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Sergeant 
Maloney,  who  put  us  through  a  course  of  drill  in  accordance 
with  the  prescribed  tactics  of  "  Scott."  The  sergeant  was 
a  stern  old  veteran,  tall,  gaunt,  and  as  straight  as  a  ramrod. 
He  had  a  peculiar  way  of  fixing  the  attention  of  the  squad 
by  giving  a  wrong  or  catching  command  occasionally  ; 
whether  intentionally  or  not,  it  was  all  the  same  to  us,  caus- 
ing a  slight  misunderstanding  that  brought  forth  from  the 
sergeant  a  few  forcible  remarks  not  in  the  "manual  of  arms," 
and  a  warning  "  never  to  obey  a  wrong  command."  With 
all  of  his  peculiarities  he  was  a  brave  soldier  and  a  model  of 

Crecision.  He  had  been  awarded  a  medal  of  honor  for 
ravery  in  the  Mexican  War,  and  was  as  proud  of  the  medal 
as  if  it  had  been  the  star  of  a  brigadier-general. 

Having  become  proficient  in  the  "  manual  of  arms,"  and 
mastering  the  complicated  motions  of  ' '  loading  in  nine 
times,"  I  was  assigned  to  a  place  in  the  rear  rank  of  the 
company,  and  told  to  ' '  keep  it  until  the  next  batch  of  re- 
cruits joined,  or  otherwise  ordered."  I  did  not  grumble, — 
to  grumble  would  be  infringing  on  the  rights  of  veterans. 
I  was  soon  made  to  understand  that  recruits  were  only  to 
be  seen,  to  obey,  and  but  seldom  heard,  and,  if  I  mistake 
not,  a  little  of  the  same  feeling  existed  among  officers,  all 
in  the  interest  of  discipline. 

Although  it  was  mid-winter,  the  days  were  pleasantly 
warm,  but  after  sunset  it  became  quite  chilly.  When  re- 
treat was  over  we  congregated  in  groups  around  camp-fires 
in  rear  of  the  tents.  Quite  a  number  of  the  older  soldiers 
had  served  in  former  campaigns  against  the  Seminoles,  and 
I  believe  nearly  all  had  served  in  the  Mexican  war.  One 
evening  I  went  from  group  to  group  to  hear  and  see  what 
was  going  on,  and  finally  came  to  one  sitting  around  a 


THE  STORY  OF  A  RECRUIT.  235 

bright  pine-knot  fire  smoking  their  pipes  and  fighting  their 
battles  over  again  ;  fi-om  the  battle  of  Palo  Alto,  under 
General  Taylor,  and  from  Vera  Cruz,  under  General  Scott, 
to  the  capitulation  of  the  City  of  Mexico.  One  veteran 
told  of  the  capture  of  the  wife  of  an  army  officer  by  the 
Seminoles.  As  told  :  ' '  She  had  been  visiting  her  husband, 
and  was  returning  to  Tampa  under  the  protection  of  a  small 
military  escort.  The  Seminoles  fired  on  the  escort  from 
an  ambush,  kiUing  all  of  the  soldiers  but  one,  who  had  been 
wounded  and  allowed  to  live  to  tell  the  tale  of  woe." 
Montgomery,  I  think,  was  the  name  of  the  lady  men- 
tioned. 

Stories  were  also  told  of  sentinels  having  been  found 
dead  on  their  posts  at  night,  their  bodies  covered  with 
arrows  of  the  stealthy  savages.  They  were  skilled  in  the 
art  of  imitating  the  hooting  of  owls  and  the  cat-like  cry  of 
panthers.  While  one  or  more  were  imitating  the  birds  or 
animals,  so  as  to  attract  the  attention  of  a  sentinel,  others 
would  be  crawling  as  noiselessly  as  snakes  to  their  unsus- 
pecting victim  to  strike  him  to  the  earth  with  tomahawks, 
and  complete  the  act  silently  with  arrows.  By  this  time 
the  pine-knots  began  to  flicker  and  smoulder.  The  call 
for  tattoo  sounded,  which  ended  the  stories  for  that  night. 
I  had  been  an  eager  and  attentive  listener,  and  felt  that 
some  of  the  stories  were  not  of  a  very  encouraging  nature 
to  a  young  and  inexperienced  recruit.  Nevertheless,  I 
learned  something  of  the  life  and  duties  of  a  soldier  not 
found  in  army  regulations  nor  in  tactics.  After  roll-call  I 
went  to  my  tent  and  couch,  the  latter  not  very  inviting, — a 
soft  place  in  the  sandy  soil,  made  softer  by  adding  an  arm- 
ful of  palmetto  leaves  ;  a  blanket  folded  in  two,  one-half 
under,  the  other  over,  with  my  knapsack  for  a  pillow,  on 
which  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just,  if  not  contented. 

In  the  regular  army  a  company  of  soldiers  was  generally 
composed  of  all  classes  of  men,  some  well  educated  and 
others  not  so  well.  Men  of  many  nations,  trades,  and 
vocations.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  these  elements  or 
different  natures  harmonize.  Discipline  is  alike  for  all,  but 
felt  more  keenly  by  the  vicious  and  dissipated.  Water 
seeks  its  level,  and  in  time  finds  it.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  men  in  all  stations  in  life.     In  the  army  the  congenial 


236  THE  STORY   OF  A   RECRUIT, 

become  comrades  and  friends  through  thick  and  thin,  and 
often  during  Hfe. 

In  the  hour  of  peril  many  of  the  ante-war  soldiers  were 
qualified  to  command  companies,  regiments,  and  brigades. 
The  close  of  the  war  found  those  who  survived  it  holding 
rank  and  commissions  in  the  regular  and  volunteer  service. 
A  glance  at  any  of  the  old  army  registers  shows  it.  Although 
many  of  them  have  passed  away,  we  still  find  quite  a  num- 
ber on  the  retired  list,  and  a  few  remain  in  active  service, — 
some  of  them  field-officers,  and  others  stand  close  to  that 
rank.  Not  only  in  the  line,  but  in  some  of  the  staff  corps 
we  also  find  officers  who  were  in  the  ranks  previous  to  the 
war.  Their  experience  in  Indian  warfare  and  strict  school 
of  discipline  prepared  them  for  any  position  in  the  line  of 
the  army.  This  was  the  only  school  at  that  time,  except 
tactical.  It  was  presumed  men  over  twent3'^-one  years  of 
age  had  finished  their  education  before  coming  into  the 
army  in  any  capacity. 

Meantime,  we  were  ordered  to  break  camp  and  march 
to  Fort  Meade  ;  and  from  there  to  continue  the  march  in 
a  southern  direction,  following  the  course  of  Pease  Creek 
(now  Peace  River),  which  empties  into  Charlotte  Harbor. 
The  march  from  Fort  Meade  was  necessarily  slow,  having 
to  cut  a  wagon-road  through  cypress  swamps  and  ever- 
changing  forests  of  pine,  large  water-oaks,  palmettos,  and 
magnolia-trees, — all  shrouded  in  masses  of  drooping  Span- 
ish moss,  so  dense  in  places  as  to  obscure  the  light  of  the 
sun.  We  found  limes,  and  groves  of  wild  orange-trees 
bearing  fruit  and  blossom  ;  very  tempting  to  look  at,  but 
to  the  taste  no  better  than  an  unripe  persimmon.  A  kind 
called  "  bitter  sweet"  was  palatable,  but  hard  to  distinguish 
from  the  sours  until  tasted.  Fragrant  jasmines,  crepe  myr- 
tles, and  many  other  sweet-smelling  plants  and  flowers  were 
in  profusion. 

The  songsters  of  the  woods  were  there  in  numbers  and 
varieties,  the  mocking-birds  leading  in  a  medley  of  song, 
their  trilling  notes  ringing  higher  and  higher  in  mockery 
of  less-favored  singing-birds. 

Deer,  turkey,  and  smaller  game  were  plentiful.  So  were 
alligators,  panthers,  snakes,  and  scorpions. 

Florida  was  surely  the  Seminole's  paradise, — their  "happy 


THE  STORY   OF   A   RECRUIT.  237 

hunting-ground. ' '  Game  in  the  woods  and  fish  in  the  lakes, 
creeks,  and  bays, — nature  providing  all  necessaries  of  life 
without  labor.  No  wonder  it  cost  thousands  of  lives  and 
millions  of  dollars  before  they  were  obliged  to  leave  and  go 
West  to  the  Indian  Territory. 

How  well  I  remember  my  first  tour  of  guard-duty,  and 
how  I  felt  after  being  posted  as  a  sentinel  at  midnight !  It 
happened  to  be  a  post  most  distant  from  the  guard,  cover- 
ing a  flank  of  the  camp.  The  night  was  dark  and  made 
still  darker  by  the  dense  foliage  of  the  trees.  I  was  pacing 
my  beat,  keeping  my  eyes  and  ears  open,  and  at  the  same 
time  memorizing  my  orders.  Owls  commenced  hooting 
near  by,  and  at  a  distance  I  heard  the  cat-like  cry  of  a 
panther,  which  was  repeated  nearer  and  nearer.  I  also 
heard  the  rustle  of  leaves  on  the  trees,  then  on  the  ground. 
I  stood  as  motionless  as  a  statue, — my  hair  stood  on  end. 
The  old  soldier's  story  crossed  my  mind.  I  held  my 
musket  tighter  and  tighter  ready  to  fire.  In  every  flash  of 
the  fireflies  I  imagined  that  I  saw  eyes  glare  and  glitter  in 
the  dark  thicket  beyond.  I  dare  not  fire  ;  if  it  proved  to 
be  a  false  alarm  I  would  surely  be  court-martialled.  While 
undergoing  these  trying  emotions  I  heard  a  sentinel  call 
out  the  hour,  and  repeated  by  others  in  succession.  This 
brought  me  to  a  sense  of  duty,  and  I  called  out,  ' '  Number 
4,  one  o'clock,  and  all's  well."  Thus  the  voice  of  man 
silenced  the  owls  and  the  panther. 

I  had  fallen  a  few  degrees  in  my  own  estimation,  and 
mentally  resolved  never  to  get  rattled  again  under  such 
circumstances. 

Well,  it  sometimes  happens  that  the  best  resolutions  of 
men  fail,  particularly  soldiers.  Mine  did,  and  I  may  as 
well  tell  it  now.  About  a  year  after  the  incident  just  re- 
lated I  was  out  on  the  Western  plains.  The  command 
that  I  belonged  to  had  been  ordered  to  settle  some  trouble 
with  the  Arapahoe  Indians.  I  was  on  a  detached  guard 
and  a  sentinel  on  post  guarding  a  beef-herd.  The  night 
was  calm  and  starry.  The  herd  was  resting  and  "  chewing 
the  cud  of  contentment"  after  feeding  on  sweet  prairie 
grass.  Everything  around  me  was  so  still  and  quiet  that  I 
dropped  into  a  musing  mood.  Suddenly  my  musings  were 
brought  to  an  abrupt  and  startling  end  by  a  thrilling  and 


238  THE  STORY   OF   A   RECRUIT. 

prolonged  howl,  that  was  taken  up  by  hundreds  of  others, 
such  as  I  had  never  heard  before.  I  thought,  "It  must 
be  Indians  trying  to  stampede  the  herd,"  as  quite  a  num- 
ber had  been  at  our  camp  that  afternoon.  I  was  carrying 
a  sabre  with  which  I  made  a  few  cuts  (not  in  tactics),  and 
quickly  returned  it  to  the  scabbard  as  a  useless  weapon, 
and  as  quickly  raised  a  short  musket  that  had  been  hang- 
ing at  my  right  side  by  a  belt  over  the  left  shoulder  ;  with 
a  finger  on  the  trigger  I  stood  in  defiant  expectation  of 
being  stricken  down  in  the  dark,  or  trodden  down  by  the 
stampeding  herd.  Minutes  passed,  and  yet  there  was  no 
commotion  in  the  herd,  only  a  few  of  the  cattle  moved 
from  their  resting  position.  The  howling  died  away  into 
short,  snappish  yelps,  similar  to  dogs  in  a  fight.  Finally, 
it  dawned  over  my  bewildered  mind  that  a  steer  had  been 
killed  that  evening  for  issue  to  the  troops.  A  pack  of 
coyotes  had  got  on  the  scent  of  it  and  were  devouring  the 
refuse  regardless  of  my  presence  ;  they  fought  over  it  as 
only  hungry  coyotes  can  fight ;  they  not  only  devoured  the 
refuse,  but  they  devoured  each  other.  In  the  fight,  the 
weak  and  mangled  succumbed  to  the  strong  and  powerful. 
The  next  morning  I  found  remnants  of  their  skin  and 
bushy  tails  on  the  ground. 

I  said  that  I  had  a  sabre  and  a  short  musket.  At  that 
time  I  was  a  "galvanized  dragoon,"  or,  in  other  words,  an 
infantry  soldier  mounted  on  a  horse,  and  armed  with  a 
heavy  sabre  and  a  short  muzzle-loading  piece  called  a  ' '  mus- 
ketoon."  In  cases  of  emergency,  when  dragoons  were  not 
convenient,  infantry  were  on  special  occasions  mounted  and 
equipped,  as  stated,  and  sent  out  to  do  a  little  dragooning 
after  Indians.  I  would  say  more  about  my  experience  as  a 
dragoon  in  the  West,  but  it  should  be  remembered  that  I 
have  not  been  relieved  off"  post  yet,  and  will  go  back  to  the 
"  land  of  flowers." 

Soon  after  the  "owl  and  panther"  incident,  I  heard 
steps  approaching  from  the  interior  of  the  camp.  In  re- 
sponse to  my  challenge  it  turned  out  to  be  the  "relief," — 
a  great  relief,  too,  not  only  in  person,  but  to  my  mind  after 
the  ordeal  I  had  passed  through. 

Many  things  happen  in  the  life  of  a  soldier  to  keep  him 
on  the  alert  besides  Indians  and  the  bullets  of  an  enemy. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  RECRUIT.  239 

The  custom  of  calling  the  hours  in  the  field  at  night  has 
virtually  ceased.  Of  course  there  are  times  and  places 
when  it  would  be  a  military  crime  to  make  any  noise  in  a 
camp,  or  on  the  march,  even  to  make  a  fire  or  light  a 
match.  At  some  of  our  Western  forts  we  still  hear  the 
cheery  calls  of  sentinels  singing  out  the  hour  in  the  cold, 
clear,  midnight  air.  The  "  All's  well  all  round"  of  number 
one  keeps  them  on  the  alert ;  and  in  memory  carries  me 
back  to  by-gone  days. 

The  march,  although  slow  (for  reasons  given),  was  main- 
tained and  conducted  on  the  same  military  principles  as 
exist  at  the  present  time  for  a  small  column  of  infantry.  It 
was  pretty  well  known  that  the  Seminoles  were  in  the 
Everglades,  although,  Indian-like,  they  were  liable  to  strike 
when  least  expected.  Old  signs  of  their  trail  were  found, 
but  no  sooner  found  than  lost  in  the  swamps  ;  all  leading  in 
the  direction  named.  Thus  the  march  was  continued  until 
we  arrived  at  Charlotte  Harbor,  where  we  rested  a  few  days 
awaiting  a  steamer  from  Tampa.  During  the  march  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  sickness,  principally  ague.  Quinine 
mixed  with  whiskey  was  the  usual  prescription,  which 
proved  to  be  very  effective.  Of  course,  those  that  did  not 
like  the  whiskey  part  could  have  water  instead,  but  I 
believe  all  took  their  medicine  as  prescribed. 

Meantime,  the  steamboat  arrived  with  a  detachment  of 
troops  on  board  ;  after  we  embarked,  it  proceeded  down 
the  harbor  to  St.  Joseph's  Island  (now  Pine  Island),  and 
increased  our  forces  by  taking  aboard  a  portion  of  the 
troops  that  had  been  stationed  there,  and  then  steamed 
across  the  harbor  and  on  up  the  Caloosahatchee  River  to  a 
designated  point,  where  we  anchored  in  the  channel  for  the 
night. 

At  early  dawn  the  next  morning  row-boats  were  manned 
with  detachments  and  started  in  line  for  the  left  bank  of 
the  river.  As  the  boats  touched  ground  we  were  ordered 
to  jump  out  and  form  line  ;  then  deployed  as  skirmishers, 
advancing  cautiously  through  a  dense  thicket  of  brush  and 
palmettos,  expecting  at  each  step  to  be  fired  on.  After  ad- 
vancing some  distance  we  were  halted  and  reinforced  by  a 
second  line  ;  the  boats  by  this  time  having  landed  all  of 
the  troops.     The  soldiers  not  on  the  picket-line  were  pre 


240  THE   STORY   OF   A   RECRUIT. 

vided  with  axes  and  such  other  tools  as  were  necessary  to 
clear  oft"  ground  for  a  camp  and  hewing  trees  for  a  stockade. 
At  that  time  it  was  considered  very  essential  that  a  soldier 
should  be  as  expert  with  an  ax  as  with  his  musket,  and  many 
of  them  were,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  was  not  of  that  num- 
ber. I  never  could  get  the  hang  of  an  ax, — that  is,  to  strike 
twice  in  the  same  place.  Nevertheless,  I  was  made  useful 
in  other  ways.  The  life  of  a  soldier  was  far  from  being  an 
idle  one.  He  was  generally  on  the  move,  and  lived  most 
of  the  time  under  a  canvas  roof;  when  not  in  the  field  he 
was  building  huts  or  temporary  winter-quarters.  The 
army,  or  a  large  portion  of  it,  was  stationed  so  far  beyond 
civilization  that  it  became  a  military  necessity  that  soldiers 
should  do  the  work  referred  to. 

The  stockade  was  finished,  provisions  landed  and  stored 
therein,  and  preparations  made  for  an  advance  into  the 
Everglades.  More  troops  were  on  the  way,  and  while 
awaiting  their  arrival  a  Seminole  Indian  approached  the 
picket-line  carrying  a  pole  with  a  white  piece  of  cloth 
tied  to  it.  The  officer  in  charge  took  him  to  the  command- 
ing officer,  and  through  an  interpreter  it  was  ascertained 
that  the  Indian  had  been  sent  by  his  chief,  Billy  Bowlegs, 
with  a  message  to  the  eftect  that  he  and  his  tribe  desired 
peace. 

This  was  communicated  to  the  general  in  command 
(Twiggs)  at  Tampa,  who  sent  word  that  he  would  meet 
the  chief  at  our  camp  on  a  certain  day.  The  general  in 
due  time  arrived  on  the  steamboat,  and  about  the  same 
time  Billy  Bowlegs  came  with  a  number  of  sub-chiefs  and 
their  squaws.  The  general  invited  them  to  a  feast  on  the 
boat,  where  a  powwow  was  held  and  a  treaty  agreed  to  ; 
wherein  the  chief  promised  that  the  Seminoles  would  be 
good  Indians  for  all  time  to  come,  and  would  go  to  the 
Western  Territory  at  the  stipulated  time. 

Uncle  Sam  then  withdrew  his  warriors,  leaving  a  small 
force  to  build  what  was  afterwards  known  as  Fort  Myers. 

Thus  ended  a  bloodless  campaign  that  restored  peace  to 
the  settlers  of  Southern  Florida  for  a  few  years  longer. 


CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS. 

Colonel  Peppercorn  was  as  ready  to  talk  about  his 
library  as  a  housekeeper  about  her  cooks,  but  he  had 
learned  that  most  men  are  oftener  indifferent  or  jealous 
than  sympathetic  in  the  matter  of  other  people's  hobbies. 

In  fact,  the  bore  has  elsewhere  been  explained  to  be  a 
man  who  persists  in  describing  his  headache  when  you  want 
to  describe  yours. 

The  visit  of  Colonel  Longbow,  therefore,  was  rather  a 
pleasant  incident,  as  that  of  a  gentleman  far  enough  ad- 
vanced in  bibliomania  to  be  appreciative,  but  not  so  far  as 
to  be  dangerous. 

This  point  is  reached  when  the  patient  falls  back  upon 
the  crude  morality  of  the  Old  Testament,  which  in  truth 
is  responsible  for  more  rascality  than  could  be  found  in  a 
week's  walk  through  Water  Street.  If  a  prosperous  col- 
lector has  anticipated  me  in  the  acquirement  of  an  original 
copy  of  Mather's  "  Magnalia"  or  Walton's  "Lives,"  I 
simply  deploy  against  my  conscience  the  Israelites  who 
spoiled  the  Egyptians,  and  straightway  abstract  these  rare 
editions  for  the  use  of  my  own  poor  shelves,  to  which  they 
ought  to  belong  in  any  fair  average  of  distribution. 

The  experiments  already  made  to  test  the  value  of  books 
was  so  successful  that  both  officers  agreed  to  try  once  more, 
but  this  time  Longbow  was  to  be  blindfolded  and  to  lose 
even  appearance  as  a  guide  to  selection. 

Thus  rendered  impartial,  he  found  himself  in  possession 
of  a  volume,  the  middle  of  the  left-hand  page  of  which, 
when  opened,  was  to  determine  whether  it  was  worth  six 
cents  a  pound  in  cost  of  transportation  or  no. 

The  search  resulted  in  "Let  them  marry,  in  God's  name, 
and  Heaven  bless  them  and  give  them  joy." 

"Sound  advice  still,"   cried  the  colonel,  and  Longbow 

admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  a  curious  echo  to  certain 

voices  of  the  night  that  had  of  late  disturbed  his  slumbers. 

But  then  he  had  managed  to  light  upon  "Don  Quixote," 

L  f  21  241 


242       CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS. 

and  perhaps  there  are  more  fertile  suggestions  to  the  square 
inch  in  that  piece  of  literature  than  any  other  covered  by 
the  dome  of  the  Bodleian,  even  after  it  shall  have  secured 
all  of  Lord  Wolseley's  war  criticism. 

And  once  again  the  two  colonels  tried  by  lottery  the 
worth  of  printers'  ink,  and  when  Peppercorn  saw  Longbow 
finally  hold  up  a  small  Latin  lexicon  his  heart  failed  him, 
and  when  he  read  from  under  Longbow's  forefinger  nothing 
but — '' Rhodope,  es,  f,  probably  the  Rose-faced  thing,  a 
viountain  range  in  Thrace,^''  he  felt  that  this  bit  of 
information  was  hardly  worth  six  cents  to  the  average 
mind. 

But  Colonel  Longbow, — still  blindfolded  and  silent,  he 
stood  there  with  more  commotion  in  his  head  than  Pepper- 
corn dreamed  of,  as  little  as  the  lounger  at  the  riverside 
knows  of  the  disturbance  away  down  yonder,  where  trout 
and  minnows  are  flying  before  the  pike.  Coincidences,  in- 
deed,— it  seemed  almost  blasphemy  to  apply  so  common  a 
term  to  portents  such  as  these. 

"Well,"  remarked  Colonel  Peppercorn,  "a  pretty  bad 
failure  that, — but  a  dictionary  tells  more  about  words  than 
fortunes,  and  has  no  special  biographic  value,  like  a 
monkey-wrench  that  fits  almost  any  kind  of  a  nut,  but 
makes  a  mighty  poor  paint-brush." 

Longbow  attempted  no  reply.  He  felt  that  it  would  be 
a  financial  success  to  carry  along  even  a  lexicon  at  any 
expense,  hereafter,  if  it  could  be  counted  upon  for  such 
seasonable  aid  in  all  emergencies. 

He  bid  the  colonel  "good-night"  and  went  up  to  his 
rooms,  trying  to  think  where  he  had  read  of  ' '  tongues  in 
trees,  books  in  running  brooks,  sermons  in  stones,  and 
good  in  everything."  Rhodope,  a  mountain  in  Thrace, 
indeed, — no  need  to  go  so  far  for  rosy-faced  things. 

But  Longbow  shook  his  head  and  next  day  resumed  his 
journey,  having  provided  himself  with  an  odd  volume  of 
"  Ccelebs  in  search  of  a  Wife,"  which  he  picked  up  in  the 
post  library,  and  took  along  to  consult  in  the  manner  of  the 
"Sortes  Virgilianae,"  where  we  leave  him,  hoping  he  will 
be  as  fortunate  as  the  Oxonian  who  is  said  to  have  sought  an 
answer  to  the  question  whether  the  Prince  of  Wales  would 
be  regent,  and  to  have  opened  his  ^neid  at 


CHRONICLES   OF   CARTER   BARRACKS.  243 

"Sic  regia  tecta  subibat 
Horridas." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  adjutant,  Mr.  Penwiper, 
received  a  very  affectionate  letter  from  Larriker.  "  If, " 
wrote  the  captain  among  other  things,  "  if  I  can  find  a 
moment's  release  from  the  deviltry  going  on  here,  I  will 
use  it  in  begging  you  to  sound  Plussmore  on  the  subject  of 
a  transfer.  Some  time  ago  I  understood  he  wanted  a 
change  of  air,  and  this  is  the  place  to  get  it.  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  ridding  myself  of  thirty  pounds  of  flesh  in  the 
last  three  weeks,  and,  should  this  kind  of  thing  keep  up, 
my  boy  will  soon  become  an  orphan.  I  have  no  leisure  for 
a  smoke  until  Basbridge  goes  to  bed,  and  between  check 
roll-calls  and  guard-duty  every  other  day,  I  might  as  well 
be  a  night-blooming  cereus,  which  I  wish  I  was.  Really, 
Plussmore  would  be  happy  here.  Basbridge  and  he  could 
make  points  on  one  another  until  life  would  grow  as  ex- 
citing as  a  chapter  in  Cooper.  I  would  be  glad  if  you 
would  lay  the  attractions  of  this  locality  before  him  in  your 
usual  limpid  manner,  and  oblige  yours,  truly, 

"Larriker." 

To  all  of  which  the  shrewd  adjutant  promptly  responded, 
"Do  it  yourself.  Plussmore  would  resent  anything  like 
management.  Tell  him  what  you  want  and  give  no 
reasons." 

Larriker  followed  this  wise  counsel,  and  then  Penwiper 
assisted  by  setting  forth  to  Plussmore  in  full  detail  the  ob- 
jections to  his  going,  encouraged  by  which  the  captain 
seriously  took  the  matter  into  consideration.  He  had  dis- 
covered there  were  certain  drawbacks  to  service  at  regi- 
mental head-quarters.  The  puddle  was  too  big,  and  there 
were  too  many  ducks  in  it.  He  was  tired  of  the  people 
and  of  the  landscape,  and  of  the  monotonous  tooting  of 
the  band.  It  would  be  refreshing  to  find  himself  in  the 
midst  of  new  patterns  of  scenery  and  society. 

And  doubtless  Plussmore' s  experience  with  what  he  con- 
sidered Miss  Ethel's  vagaries  was  kept  unpleasantly  alive 
by  so  much  of  what  had  been  common  ground  to  both. 
Here  they  had  walked  together,  and  there  he  had  twined 


244       CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS. 

round  her  hat  a  spray  of  jasmine  stolen  through  the 
colonel's  garden  fence.  Down  yonder  was  the  porch 
where  they  met  for  the  first  time,  and  close  by  was  a  gate 
where  he  had  last  seen  her. 

Nearly  every  day  he  had  to  pass  the  spot  on  which,  at 
her  request,  he  picked  up  a  ribbon  lost  by  some  damsel  on 
a  holiday  of  flirtation  and  sight-seeing.  This  had  Miss 
Ethel  tied  on  the  button  of  his  coat,  proclaiming  him  there- 
with to  be  a  knight  of  the  order  of  the  lotus,  on  account, 
as  she  said,  of  the  vivacity  of  his  disposition,  which  Pluss- 
more  understood  as  a  refined  acknowledgment  of  his  ha- 
bitual suppression  of  himself  in  her  society  lest  his  ardor 
might  give  offence. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  his  eyes  were  opened,  and 
he  in  turn  tied  the  ribbon  round  a  broken  decanter  over  the 
empty  fireplace,  and  was  as  near  quoting  Horace  as  com- 
munity of  sentiment  and  ignorance  of  language  permitted — 

"  me  tabula  sacer 

Votiva  paries  indicat  uvida 
Suspendisse  potenti 

Vestimenta  maris  deo," 

which  is  rendered  by  the  college  valedictorian  into — 

"  I  saved  one  note, 
The  last  you  wrote. 

It  lies  upon  my  shelf; 
And  there,  half  dry, 
It  shows  that  I 

Know  how  it  is  myself" 

Not  unreasonably,  then,  was  the  captain  prone  to  detect 
an  echo  of  pity  in  Mrs.  Peppercorn's  greeting,  or  of  malign 
interest  in  the  bow  of  Mrs.  Featherfoot,  or  even  in  the 
polite  conventionalities  of  Madame  Truffles. 

Yes,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  put  all  this  behind  him,  and, 
moreover,  the  captain  rather  liked  Colonel  Longbow,  who 
for  his  own  amusement  occasionally  fell  into  Plussmore's 
ways,  and  allowed  an  apparent  interest  to  tempt  the  cap- 
tain into  a  full  ventilation  of  the  grievances  a  complete 
stock  of  which  Plussmore  generally  kept  on  hand.  There 
was  always  something  wrong  with  the  post  adjutant,  or  the 


CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS.  245 

post  commissary,  or  the  post  surgeon,  or  the  post  treasurer, 
or  the  post  commander,  or  at  all  events  with  the  post  itself, 
if,  indeed,  they  were  not  all  in  a  conspiracy  against  Pluss- 
more's  peace  of  mind  when  he  had  been  following  too 
constant  a  diet  of  strong  coffee  and  lobster  salad. 

Mere  drill  had  no  terrors  for  Plussmore,  as  we  have  al- 
ready mentioned.  One  trouble  with  Carter  Barracks  was 
the  restriction  of  this  amusement  to  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  the  colonel  remarking  that  what  an  officer  could  not 
teach  in  that  interval  was  not  worth  knowing.  But  Pluss- 
more liked  to  take  plenty  of  time  and  go  over  the  company 
man  by  man,  rectifying  every  detail  of  position  and  move- 
ment with  the  patient  gravity  that  such  important  matters 
demanded. 

It  took  one  of  Plussmore' s  recruits  nearly  a  year  to  get 
into  the  ranks,  and  even  then  he  was  set  back  into  squad- 
drill  instanter,  if  the  captain's  eagle-eye  ever  caught  his 
profile  a  button's  breadth  beyond  the  alignment. 

And  Plussmore' s  Sunday  morning  inspection  was  a  thing 
to  behold.  It  was  slower  than  the  building  of  the  Missis- 
sippi delta.  In  comparison,  verily  do  the  mills  of  the 
gods  grind  with  lightning-like  velocity.  At  last  the  colo- 
nel established  a  "recall,"  after  which,  as  he  expressed  it, 
Plussmore  must  pocket  his  microscope. 

Neither  could  check  roll-calls  fail  to  furnish  to  Plussmore 
a  sort  of  subtile  satisfaction  enjoyed  by  lazier  men  than  he, 
— that  of  making  everybody  else  uncomfortable,  which  is 
the  last  relish  abandoned  by  the  sinner  in  the  process  of 
regeneration,  and,  worse  than  that,  enters  largely  into  the 
value  of  those  seats  in  the  celestial  dress-circle  which 
command  a  view  of  the  pit. 

Basbridge  might  abound  in  such  ways  and  means, — if  not 
mean  ways, — which  characterize  ordinary  specimens  of  "a 
thorough  soldier,"  but  Plussmore  rather  welcomed  the 
prospect  of  encountering  him  on  his  native  heath.  It 
would  make  life  exciting,  and  was  infinitely  better  than  the 
lonesome  business  of  trying  to  educate  regimental  head- 
quarters up  to  their  responsibilities.  There  is  nothing  men 
know  so  much  ot  as  every  duty  except  the  one  waiting  at 
their  own  door. 

Moreover,  to  the  captain's  apprehension  there  was  actual 

21* 


246  CHRONICLES   OF   CARTER   BARRACKS. 

hostility  in  the  air  of  Carter  Barracks.  Neither  in  love  nor 
tactics  had  he  been  duly  appreciated,  and  the  relations 
between  him  and  Captains  Boomer  and  Trufifles  were 
getting  somewhat  strained. 

A  lot  of  recruits  recently  received  at  the  post  were  to  be 
divided  up  by  the  former  and  Plussmore,  who  was  not  a 
man  of  expedients,  but  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  his 
own  judgment. 

He  would  walk  round  a  horse  with  great  deliberation, 
investigate  each  extremity  with  concentrated  care,  study 
the  animal  fore  and  aft  and  amidships  with  judicial  severity, 
and  then  announce  his  character,  point  by  point,  with  all 
the  preciseness  of  a  criminal  indictment. 

As  for  a  recruit,  one  look  at  face  and  figure  was  enough 
to  satisfy  Plussmore  whether  the  man  had  in  him  the  stuff 
for  a  corporal  or  a  snowbird. 

Boomer,  however,  with  his  usual  modesty,  made  no  claim 
to  inspiration  either  as  a  jockey  or  judge  of  men.  He 
preferred  a  week  in  the  stable  or  a  day's  fatigue  duty.  And 
in  the  matter  of  these  recruits  he  had  fortified  himself  by  a 
close  inspection  of  the  muster-roll,  and  could  have  given 
the  history  of  every  name  on  it  with  greater  accuracy  than 
the  clerk  who  made  it  out. 

Each  captain  had  alternate  choice,  and  Plussmore' s  first 
selection  was  a  very  tall,  straight,  broad-chested  fellow  with 
mutton-chop  whiskers  and  florid  complexion,  of  whom  here- 
after. When  the  ceremony  was  finished.  Boomer  by  a 
strange  coincidence  was  found  in  the  possession  of  the  only 
clerk,  carpenter,  and  tailor  on  the  list,  while  his  other  men 
were  reported  as,  by  occupation,  student,  apothecary,  mu- 
sician, and  engineer. 

Of  Plussmore' s  selections  two  were  in  the  guard-house 
before  night,  two  deserted  the  next  day,  one  soon  afterwards 
went  into  the  hospital,  and  one  immediately  began  to  de- 
velop a  capacity  for  rations  and  repose  that  convinced  the 
sergeant,  who  was  addicted  to  Dickens,  that  he  had  to  do 
with  the  Fat  Boy  done  over  and  enlarged. 

But  "mutton-chops"  remained,  a  thing  of  beauty  and 
of  joy  forever.  Plussmore  particularly  recommended  him 
to  the  sergeant  as  a  most  promising  subject,  but  that  veteran 
preserved  a  grim  silence. 


CHRONICLES   OF   CARTER   BARRACKS.  247 

In  the  course  of  the  week  the  captain  noticed  with  pain- 
ful astonishment  on  the  morning  report,  ' '  recruit  Chfford 
to  confinement " 

'  *  What' s  this,  sergeant  ?  what' s  the  matter  with  Clifford  ?' ' 

"  Drunk,  sir." 

"  Release  him." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Purely  a  military  dialogue,  but  the  sergeant's  face,  which 
Plussmore  declined  to  look  at,  was  as  voluminous  as  the 
pages  of  Gibbon. 

A  few  more  days  passed,  and  the  sergeant  one  afternoon 
came  over  to  the  captain,  and  with  a  particularly  formal 
salute  reported  recruit  Clifford  as  too  drunk  for  drill,  and 
requested  further  instructions. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  yourself,  sergeant?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"There  is  no  doubt  as  to  his  condition?" 

"  Dead  drunk,  sir." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  Had  him  put  in  bed,  sir." 

"  Let  him  sleep  it  off,  and  then  bring  him  to  me." 

' '  Yes,  sir. ' ' . 

By  this  time  Plussmore  was  angry,  and  the  longer  he 
waited  the  madder  he  grew.  In  the  course  of  the  evening 
there  was  a  knock  at  his  door,  and  the  sergeant  announced 
that  he  had  Clifford  outside. 

"  Send  him  in." 

Plussmore  rose  up  from  his  chair,  and  waited  with  a 
volley  of  reprimands  fairly  aching  to  get  beyond  his  teeth. 
He  failed  to  notice  that  the  sergeant,  after  a  moment's 
pause  in  the  hall,  had  gone  outside.  It  was  quite  a  while 
before  he  returned,  and  the  captain  spent  the  interval  in 
endeavoring  to  eliminate  a  crowd  of  swear-words  from  the 
terse  remarks  in  which  he  proposed  to  set  forth  the  enormity 
of  Mr.  Clifford's  conduct.  He  intended  to  be  peremptory, 
but  not  profane, — if  he  could  help  it. 

Finally  the  sergeant  appeared.  "Can't  find  him,  sir; 
left  him  in  the  hall ;  must  have  gone  as  soon  as  my  back 
was  turned." 

"Very  well,  sergeant ;  hunt  him  up  and  confine  him." 

Plussmore,  finding  his  room  intolerably  hot  and  close, 


248  CHRONICLES   OF   CARTER   BARRACKS. 

which  would  never  have  been  detected  by  the  thermometer, 
went  out  for  a  walk,  and  did  not  pull  up  until  he  had  reached 
the  cove,  fully  three  miles  from  the  post. 

In  the  morning  the  sergeant  reported  that  Clifford  had 
put  in  an  appearance  at  tattoo  roll-call,  and  stated  that  his 
flight  was  rendered  necessary  by  mutinous  conduct  in  the 
department  of  the  interior,  which  left  him  no  time  for  cere- 
mony. The  sergeant,  rather  disposed  to  credit  the  state- 
ment, had  endeavored  to  find  the  captain,  and  failing  in 
that,  had  allowed  Clifford  to  remain  in  quarters.  "What 
were  the  captain's  orders?" 

"Well,  sergeant,  let  him  go.  I  have  been  disposed  to 
give  him  every  chance.     What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"Bad  lot,  sir." 

"Why,  sergeant,  he  don't  look  like  it." 

"Them's  the  worst  sort,  sir." 

The  sergeant  had  no  theories  on  the  subject,  but  was  in 
his  third  enlistment,  and  meantime  had  handled  a  good 
many  men.  He  knew  that  a  nickel-plated  trunk  is  not 
necessarily  a  cash-box,  or,  as  he  was  not  much  given  to 
beard,  he  had  saved  his  pride  and  generalized  his  observa- 
tions into  the  opinion  that  it  takes  something  more  than  a 
moustache  to  make  a  soldier. 

It  was  hard  to  part  Plussmore  and  his  ideals.  For  several 
days  he  had  been  almost  afraid  to  look  over  the  morning 
report,  lest  he  should  encounter  Clifford's  name,  and  he 
really  began  to  hope  that  the  trouble  was  the  result  only 
of  recent  change  and  new  surroundings. 

Growing  familiar  with  his  duties  and  encouraged  by 
judicious  management,  this  recruit  would  be  sure  to  fulfil 
the  rare  promise  of  his  exterior,  and  in  the  course  of  events 
would  surely  justify  Plussmore' s  foresight  and  patience  by 
ultimately  becoming  "a  good  first  sergeant,"  and  the  cap- 
tain would  then  be  enabled  to  point  to  him  with  pride  and 
say,  "You  see  that  man?  Well,  I  picked  him  out  and 
brought  him  up,  and  there  he  is,  the  best  non-commissioned 
officer  in  the  regiment." 

The  very  next  Sunday  afternoon  Plussmore  came  face  to 
face  with  his  gay  recruit,  making  the  best  of  his  way  home 
and  occupying  the  lion's  share  of  the  road  in  doing  so. 

The  fellow  braced  up  and  endeavored  to  compass  a  salute, 


CHRONICLES   OF   CARTER   BARRACKS.  249 

but  only  succeeded  in  knocking  off  his  cap.  He  made  no 
effort  just  then  to  pick  it  up,  recognizing  with  a  politic  (al) 
general's  wisdom  that  he  must  reorganize  and  resupply. 
Finding  the  Chickahominy  untenable,  he  changed  base  to 
the  James  River,  or  actually  fell  back  against  the  fence,  by 
the  kind  support  of  which  he  was  enabled  to  straighten 
himself  out,  and  began  gazing  at  his  cap  with  an  air  of  pro- 
found calculation.  At  last  he  slowly  stretched  out  his  hand 
in  its  direction,  and  was  very  much  surprised  apparently  to 
find  it  still  so  far  away.  He  tried  to  investigate  the  ends 
of  his  fingers,  as  though  they  wore  to  blame,  and  the  situa- 
tion having  now  become  too  complicated  for  further  effort, 
he  sank  gradually  to  the  ground  and  went  to  sleep. 

Plussmore  left  him  there.  His  disgust  was  so  intense 
that  he  almost  hoped  the  man,  if  let  alone,  would  die  and 
be  done  with  it.  The  next  day,  passing  down  the  walk, 
he  saw  Clifford  on  the  other  side,  looking  as  straight  and 
trim  as  a  larch  and  as  virtuous  as  the  ten  commandments. 
"Come  here,  sir,  come  here,"  shouted  Plussmore,  actually 
crossing  half  the  street  in  his  passion  ;  "  come  here  imme- 
diately. ' ' 

There  was  no  need  of  so  much  insistence,  for  Clifford 
stopped  at  once,  came  over,  and,  halting  in  front  of  Pluss- 
more, gracefully  saluted  him.  The  captain  took  no  notice 
of  it,  but  shaking  his  finger  at  the  impassive  soldier,  went  on, 
**  You  know  what  you  are,  sir  ;  you  know  what  you  are?" 

As  there  was  no  reply,  Plussmore  continued, — "  I'll  tell 
you  what  you  are, — a  dead  beat,  sir,  a  dead  beat,  A  dead 
BEAT.     Now,  do  you  know  what  that  means?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  with  a  deferential  shake  of 
the  head, — "no,  sir,  I  do  not,  er — er — I  have  never  been 
in  the  habit  of  associating  with  people  who  used  such  lan- 
guage." 

After  all,  Plussmore  was  a  pretty  square  kind  of  a  man, 
for  it  must  be  confessed  that  recruit  Clifford,  at  this  stage 
of  the  proceedings,  like  Stonewall  Jackson  at  Port  Repub- 
lic, stood  triumphant,  with  the  enemy  flung  off  from  all 
sides  of  him. 

But  the  counterstroke  of  the  ordinary  officer  would  have 
been  the  guard-house.  Plussmore  rose  superior  to  the 
temptation,  keeping  in  mind  that  the  man  had  done  nothing 


/50       CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS. 

but  answer  a  question,  and  was  hardly  amenable  to  the 
articles  of  war  for  that,  even  though  his  reply  was  more 
conclusive  than  had  been  expected. 

*'  Go  to  your  quarters,"  said  the  captain,  and  with  another 
esthetic  salute  Clifford  departed. 

Of  course,  Plussmore  could  not  get  this  performance  out 
of  his  mind,  and  the  more  he  reflected  upon  it  the  less  com- 
fortable he  felt.  The  crushing  reproof  that  he  intended  to 
administer  had  come  back  like  a  boomerang,  and  it  did 
seem  as  though  an  old  company  commander  ought  to  have 
left  the  field  in  a  little  better  order,  with  colors  ragged,  per- 
haps, but  yet  full  high  advanced.  While  the  captain  was 
thus  perplexing  himself  with  the  many  possibilities  of  apt 
rejoinder  that  in  these  cases  never  get  to  the  front  until 
the  battle  is  over,  Mrs.  Truffles  passed  by  and  bestowed 
her  usual  pleasant  bow  and  smile  upon  the  preoccupied 
Plussmore. 

He  neither  heard  nor  saw  her,  as  little  conscious  of  her 
gracious  greeting  as  Bonaparte  of 

"The  cannon's  loud  roar  and  the  musketry's  rattle," 

when  the  jailer  of  St.  Helena  had  finished  the  delegated 
job  of  the  frightened  European  cabinets. 

"Well,  I  like  that,"  was  the  comment  of  the  madame, 
when  she  found  that  her  neighbor  absolutely  ignored  her 
presence.      "What's  the  matter  with  the  man  ?" 

Naturally  she  went  and  told  her  husband,  who  started 
after  the  offender  with  the  biggest  stick  in  his  collection. 

Not  by  any  manner  of  means.  Mrs.  Truffles  was  not 
constructed  on  that  type.  In  the  large  majority  of  cases 
she  was  confident  she  could  hoe  her  own  row,  and  in  this 
particular  instance  never  once  thought  of  invoking  the  aid 
of  Captain  Truffles,  who  was  a  little  hasty  and  quite  able 
to  mix  things,  if  rashly  started  to  work. 

She  continued  on  her  way  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Traum,  whose 
sister  had  just  arrived,  and  when  the  three  ladies  fore- 
gathered they  were  all  as  sweet  as  bees  on  a  clover-blossom, 
and  nobody  would  have  dreamed  that  so  near  the  surface 
of  these  sparkling  amenities  lay  the  dark  resolve  of  Madame 
Truffles  to  discipline  the  surly  Plussmore. 


CHRONICLES   OF   CARTER   BARRACKS.  25I 

And  she  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  The  captain  was 
too  restless  to  be  content  with  the  seclusion  of  his  quarters. 
He  acknowledged  that  his  recent  failure  bordered  on  the 
ignominious,  in  view  of  the  things  that  he  might  have  said, 
and  had  already  composed  a  scathing  allusion  to  Clifford's 
performance  in  the  fence-corner,  where  he  had  abandoned 
the  hunt  for  his  cap  and  slept  off  his  liquor. 

The  captain  was  fairly  in  hopes  he  might  run  across  the 
fellow  again,  and  began  to  pace  back  and  forth  in  front  of 
his  quarters.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Boomer  appeared,  and  hailed 
him  in  such  cheery  fashion  that  the  world  grew  brighter,  a 
good  deal  brighter,  and  Plussmore  doffed  his  cap  with 
more  than  usual  elegance  and  felt  proud  of  his  success,  and 
finally  determined  to  go  a-fishing. 

He  changed  his  clothes  and  passed  down  the  yard. 
There,  just  turning  the  corner,  was  Mrs.  Truffles.  Again 
the  captain  pulled  himself  together  for  a  bow  and  accom- 
paniments that  he  proposed  should  be  as  perfect  as  any 
ever  executed  by  the  first  gentleman  in  England  or  the 
greatest  orator  in  America. 

These  things  always  turn  out  best  when  least  studied. 

To  begin  with,  Plussmore  forgot  he  had  exchanged  his 
forage-cap  for  a  slouch-hat,  and  became  demoralized  with 
the  flexible  brim,  at  which  he  pulled  like  a  dentist,  but  it 
was  of  no  use.  Madame  Truffles  sailed  along,  not  precisely 
in  maiden  meditation  fancy  free,  but  with  an  Arctic  stare 
that  would  have  made  an  ice-pick  shiver. 

"Aha,"  muttered  the  lady;  "my  debts  are  paid  and 
there  is  a  balance  in  the  bank." 

It  was  Plussmore' s  nature  to  finish  every  job  he  under- 
took, and  he  was  still  tugging  at  his  hat,  when  the  madame 
disappeared  behind  the  rose-bushes  of  his  neighbor.  A 
big  cloud  seemed  to  have  come  over  the  sun,  and  cold 
winds  blew  out  of  the  east.  The  captain  concluded  to 
stay  in-doors,  and,  feeling  in  need  of  a  tonic,  took — a  cou- 
ple of  quinine  pills.  Here  was  more  material  for  thought, 
and  the  captain  decided  that  the  madame  had  become 
prejudiced  by  some  misrepresentations  of  old  Truffles,  who, 
it  just  now  occurred  to  Plussmore,  had  been  noticeably 
formal  for  a  fortnight. 

Therefore,  the  next  time  they  met  Plussmore  reduced  his 


252       CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS. 

recognition  to  so  nearly  a  negative  quantity  that  Captain 
Truffles,  always  dignified  and  often  rheumatic,  thought 
himself  warranted  in  finding  occupation  for  his  eyes  in  the 
opposite  direction,  so  far  as  the  cervical  muscles  permitted, 
whenever  Plussmore  obstructed  the  view.  In  time,  by  suc- 
cessive increments  on  each  side,  it  would  have  developed 
into  a  very  pretty  quarrel  ;  but  from  a  remark  or  two  of 
the  captain's,  Mrs.  Truffles' s  attention  was  called  to  this 
probability,  and,  being  a  very  sensible  woman,  as  ready  to 
take  the  initiative  in  conciliation  as  in  hostilities,  she  deter- 
mined to  prevent  the  growth  of  this  hatchet  into  an  axe. 
Anger  is  lazy,  and  not  much  harm  is  done  when  it  comes 
and  goes  like  a  mushroom.  It  is  in  cases  of  slow  combus- 
tion only,  where  the  flame  smoulders  like  a  coal-pit,  that 
the  devil  gets  time  to  join  the  mess. 

Meanwhile,  Plussmore  had  received  a  note  from  Larriker, 
in  which  that  gentleman  set  forth  in  glowing  terms  the 
attractions  of  Fort  Saco  for  a  man  who  was  fond  of  sport. 
If  Larriker  correctly  reported,  the  brooks  and  woods  were 
in  their  primeval  condition  so  far  as  fish,  fur,  and  feathers 
were  concerned. 

"To  him  who  in  love  of  nature  holds  communion  with 
her  visible  forms,  she  speaks  a  various  language,"  and 
according  to  Larriker  all  the  dialects,  moods,  and  tenses 
existed  at  Fort  Saco  to  an  extent  unknown  even  to  Lindley 
Murray. 

This  was  skilfully  managed  and  touched  Plussmore  on  a 
tender  point,  for  he  was  wont  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  to 
stand  bareheaded  under  the  pines  and  say,  "The  groves 
were  God's  first  temples,"  by  way  of  excuse  for  not  going 
to  church. 

And  then  Plussmore  had  little  occasion  at  Carter  Bar- 
racks for  perhaps  the  most  perfect  sporting  equipment  that 
ever  was  known,  that  of  Roanoke  Brierwood  not  ex- 
cepted, whose  pipes,  poles,  and  guns  were  the  envy  of  the 
regiment. 

When  Plussmore  descended  upon  the  scene  in  complete 
panoply,  corduroys  and  high  boots,  a  coat  studded  with 
pockets  like  the  holes  in  a  militia  target,  a  hat  encircled 
with  hair-lines  and  fish-hooks  for  anything  from  perch  to 
pickerel,  belt  and  box  for  ammunition,  pouch  and  bag  for 


CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS.       253 

game,  a  flask  for — himself  and  another  for  snakes — well — 
unfortunately  the  outfit  and  the  income  were  inversely- 
related,  but  everybody  knows  that  in  hunting,  as  in  the 
pursuit  of  truth  generally,  the  pleasure  is  in  the  process 
and  not  in  the  proceeds. 

After  one  or  two  days'  further  consideration,  Plussmore 
sat  down  and  wrote  Larriker  that  he  had  no  objections  to 
the  transfer  that  oflicer  desired. 

For  a  move  gave  Plussmore  no  anxiety.  Between  a 
bonfire  and  the  auctioneer  it  enabled  him  to  clear  the  decks 
and  get  rid  of  a  great  deal  of  accumulated  rubbish,  and  he 
rather  welcomed  this  obliteration  of  the  past.  So  he  began 
to  sort  his  luggage  into  minuend  and  remainder,  the  former 
to  be  the  nucleus  of  a  fresh  formation  at  Fort  Saco,  the 
latter  devoted  to  friends  or  the  fireplace. 

Probably  it  is  the  bump  of  acquisitiveness  that  attaches 
people  to  whatever  has  been  sanctified  by  their  use,  so  that 
to  abandon  a  dress  or  destroy  an  old  letter  seems  a  crime. 
In  the  case  of  Plussmore,  so  to  speak,  this  bump  was  a 
cavity.  In  proportion  as  he  grew  accustomed  to  things 
they  became  disagreeable.  His  beard,  for  instance,  under- 
went all  possible  transformations,  from  fringes  on  the  cheek- 
bone to  a  solitary  tuft  under  the  chin.  Sometimes  it  was 
an  imperial  only  and  sometimes  the  demnition  total,  or  in 
Boomer's  phrase  it  varied  through  2l pousse-caf e  to  full  bill 
of  fare.  And  from  great  emergencies  his  face  shone  out 
smooth  as  an  ^^^.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  Plussmore  was 
one  day  returning  from  town,  when  he  encountered  Mrs. 
Truffles  just  coming  out  of  Deckerton's,  a  place  that  com- 
bined the  advantages  of  post-oflice,  library,  and  dry-goods 
on  the  village  corner  nearest  the  post. 

He  fell  to  freezing-point  at  once,  but  to  his  astonishment 
that  vivacious  lady  called  out,  "Oh, — Captain  Plussmore, 
I'm  delighted  to  see  you  for  two  reasons  ;  this  bundle  is  one 
of  them,  and  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  take  it,  I'll  tell 
you  the  other. ' ' 

The  onslaught  was  as  decisive  as  Kellerman's  charge 
at  Marengo,  and  Captain  Plussmore  promptly  tucked  the 
bundle  under  his  arm  and  began  the  composition  of  a 
stately  sentence,  to  the  effect  that  he  never  considered 
himself  really  happy,  unless  "he  was — er — er " 


254       CHRONICLES  OF  CARTER  BARRACKS. 

"Carrying  my  bundles,  of  course.  Well,  Captain  Pluss- 
more,  that  is  very  nice  of  you.  I  expect  a  very  charming 
young  lady  next  week — Monday,  if  nothing  happens  ;  she 
thinks  of  going  from  here  to  those  people  at  Fort  Charles, 
and  I  wish  her  to  fully  realize  the  superior  attractions  of 
Carter  Barracks.  Captain  Truffles  and  myself  would  be 
glad  to  have  you  lunch  with  us  Wednesday. ' ' 


THE  END. 


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TDK  OKEN  CHORDS.    By  Mrs.  George  McClel- 

■^--^      LAN  (Harford  Fleming),  author  of  "  A  Carpet  Knight,"  and 

"  Cupid   and   the    Sphinx."     i2mo.      Cloth.     373  pages. 

^1.25.     Paper  covers,  50  cents. 

"When,  in  1878,  Mrs.  George  McClellan  published  her  '  Cupid 

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was  a  general  recognition   of  her  marked  literary  ability.     Her  '  A 

Carpet  Knight,'  published  a  few  years  later,  showed  an  improvement 

in  the  technique  and  skill  in  plot;  and  her  latest  volume  is  a  still 

more  artistic  work.     It  only  misses  being  a  great  novel,  and  is  certainly 

one  of  the  best  of  the  year." — Boston  Traveller. 

/I  LEAFLESS   SPRING.     By  Ossip   Schubin, 

-^^        author  of  "O  Thou,   My   Austria!"  "  Erlach   Court," 

"  Countess  Erika's  Apprenticeship,"  etc.     Translated  from 

the  German  by  Mary  J.  Safford.    i2mo.    Cloth,  ^1.25. 

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gilded  saloons  of  the  Parisian  and  Viennese  aristocracy,  or  amid  the 

dimmer  splendors  of  Roman  and  Venetian  palaces,  on  intimate  terms 

with  that  society  of  which  Motley  wrote  that  '  You  must  be  intimate 

with  the  Pharaohs  or  stay  at  home  !'     For  it  is  among  the  fashions 

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Schubin  seeks  her  themes,  and  a  very  pleasant  society  it  is." — London 

AthencBum. 

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"  A  genuinely  entertaining  story.  The  hero  is  a  disappointed 
litterateur,  who  turns  tramp.  In  his  wanderings  he  encounters  a 
ghost,  who  agrees  to  help  him  to  fame  and  fortune  if  he  will  give 
him  his  body  six  months  in  the  year.  The  bargain  is  struck,  the 
tramp  writes  under  the  spirit's  direction,  and,  of  course,  finds  a  pub- 
lisher. Various  complications  arise  from  the  joint  partnership,  and  an 
unblushing  attempt  is  made  to  cheat  the  poor  ghost.  '  The  Riddle 
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Philadelphia:  J.  B,  Lippincott  Company,  715-717  Market  St. 


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Wood.  i2mo.  Cloth,  ^1.25. 
"  The  story  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  bold  Foresters  will  never  lose  in- 
terest while  our  language  lasts,  and  no  story  founded  upon  their  lives 
and  deeds  possesses  a  greater  charm  than  Muddock's.  We  are  intro- 
duced to  the  wide  and  comparatively  unknown  woods,  to  the  gallant 
Robin  Hood  and  his  men,  and  to  brave  knights  and  fair  women. 
The  story  has  all  the  interest  and  life  of  the  old  time  romances, 
and  will  be  read  with  unflagging  pleasure." — Public  Opinion. 

'J^HE    THOUSAND   AND    ONE  DAYS.     A 

-*        collection   of  Persian  Tales  in  two  volumes.     Edited  by 
Justin  Huntley  McCarthy,  with  Illustrations  by  Stan- 
ley L.  Wood.     i2mo.     $4.00. 
"  Nothing  good  is  ever  lost,  and  these  stories  are  so  excellent,  so 
reminiscent  of  the  ever-fresh  night-tales  of  all  our  youths,  that  it  is 
surprising  they  have  not  long  ago  wandered  into  a  modern  English 
dress.     To  say  that  they  will  at  once  be  accorded  a  place  in  the 
library  beside  the  hallowed  version  of  old  is  to  say  all  that  need  be 
said  in  their  praise." — London  AthcBneum. 

"T^IIE  DRAGON  OF  WANTLEY.  His  Rise, 
J-  His  Voracity,  and  His  Downfall.  A  Romance.  By 
Owen  Wistar.  Illustrated  by  Mr.  John  Stewardson. 
8vo.  Cloth,  gilt  top.  ^1.50. 
"  It  would  deprive  the  reader  of  half  the  pleasure  of  reading  this 
uncommonly  bright  tale,  were  we  to  anticipate  even  a  part  of  the 
plot.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  there  is  the  prettiest  and  freshest  of  love 
episodes  woven  through  the  mistletoe  leaves  of  a  hearty  Christmas 
story;  that  the  Baron  of  Wantley,  the  Monks  of  Oyster-le-Main, 
Elaine,  and  Geoffrey,  and  little  Whelpdale  the  Buttons,  and  Old 
Popham  the  Butler, — that  all  these  and  a  score  more  are  the  most 
laughable  and  lovable  characters  that  we  have  encountered  in  fiction 
this  many  a  day.  In  Mr.  John  Stewardson,  Mr.  Wistar  has  had  an 
artistic  collaborator  born.  The  humorous  pen-and-ink  work  which 
illustrates  the  text  and  adds  to  the  fun  of  almost  every  page  opens 
an  entirely  new  vein  in  art." — Chicago  Times. 


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N  BOTH  SIDES.     By   Frances    Courtenay 
Baylor.     i2mo.    Cloth,  $\.2ty. 


"  No  such  faithful,  candid,  kindly,  brilliant,  and  incisive  presenta- 
tion of  English  and  American  types  has  before  been  achieved.  The 
wit  of  the  story  is  considerable.  It  is  written  brilliantly,  yet  not 
flimsily.  It  is  the  best  international  novel  that  either  side  has  hitherto 
produced.  It  is  written  by  an  American  woman  who  really  knows 
both  countries,  and  who  has  shown  that  she  possesses  powers  which 
ought  to  put  her  in  the  front  rank  of  fiction," — New  York  Tribune. 


B 


EHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.     By  Frances 
Courtenay  Baylor.     i2mo.    Cloth,  ^1.25. 


"  It  is  lightened  through  and  through  by  humor  as  subtle  and 
spontaneous  as  any  that  ever  brightened  the  dark  pages  of  life  history, 
and  is  warmed  by  that  keen  sympathy  and  love  for  human  nature 
which  transfigures  and  ennobles  everything  it  touches," — Chicago 
Tribune. 


A 


SHOCKING    EXAMPLE.      By     Frances 
Courtenay  Baylor.    i2mo.    Cloth,  $\.2^. 

"  An  entertaining  collection  of  stories  by  a  clever  writer  who  does 
not  adhere  to  any  single  line  of  scenes,  incidents,  or  characters.  Few 
of  our  women  writers  have  ventured  upon  so  wide  a  range  of  character 
or  been  more  successful." — New  York  Herald. 

"  Miss  Baylor  is  one  of  the  best  and  brightest  of  American  short 
story  writers." — Boston  Transcript. 


P 


^AR  IN  THE  FOREST.    By  S.  Weir  Mitchell, 
author  of  "  Hepzibah  Guinness,"  etc.    i2mo.    Cloth,  iSl.25. 

"  Dr.  Mitchell  shows  in  this,  as  in  his  other  novels,  a  keen  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature,  the  power  to  grasp  and  portray  remarkable 
situations,  a  hearty  recognition  of  manliness  in  all  its  phases,  and  a 
thorough  understanding  of  the  intricacies  of  the  feminine  mind.  It  is 
a  capital  novel." — Boston  Beacon. 


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O TORIES B V MRS.  H.LOVE TT CAMER ON. 

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A  Sister's  Sin.  A  Daughter's  Heart, 

Jack's  Secret. 

"  A  wide  circle  of  admirers  always  welcome  a  new  work  by  this 

favorite  author.     Her  style  is  pure  and  interesting,  and  she  depicts 

marvellously  well   the  daily  social  life   of  the    English   people."— 

St.  Louis  Republic.  

Bound  only  in  cloth,  ^i.oo  per  volume. 
A  Lost  Wife.  The  Cost  of  a  Lie. 

This  Wicked  World.  A  Devout  Lover. 

A  Life's  Mistake.  Worth  Winning. 

Vera  Neville.  Pure  Gold. 

In  a  Grass  Country. 
"  Mrs.  Cameron's  numerous  efforts  in  the  line  of  fiction  have  won 
for  her  a  wide  circle  of  admirers.  Her  experience  in  novel  writing, 
as  well  as  her  skill  in  inventing  and  delineating  characters,  enables 
her  to  put  before  the  reading  public  stories  that  are  full  of  interest 
and  pure  in  tone." — Harrisburg  Telegraph. 

^AKEN   BY  SIEGE.     121110.     Cloth,    gi.25. 

■'-  "A   graphic    and   very   interesting   anonymous   story   of  a 

young  journalist's  experience  in  New  York.  Who  the  hero  may  be  is 
enveloped  in  mystery,  but  that  the  heroine  is  Miss  Clara  Louise 
Kellogg  there  is  Uttle  doubt.  The  other  characters  will  be  readily 
recognized  as  conspicuous  in  New  York  society.  The  story  reveals 
the  inside  workings  of  some  of  the  metropolitan  newspapers,  and 
shows  how,  by  pluck,  brains,  and  luck,  a  new  man  may  sometimes 
rise  rapidly  to  the  highest  rank  in  journalism,  distancing  the  veterans. 
The  author  has  unusual  ability  as  a  writer  of  fiction." — Albany 
yournal. 

n^HE  STOR Y  OF  DON  MIFF.     By  Virginius 

-*         Dabney,  author  of  "  Gold  That  Did  Not  Glitter."     l2mo. 

Cloth,  51.50. 

"  Hardly  a  single  chapter  can  be  read  without  a  laugh,  and  yet 

there  are  some  which  will  bring  an  inevitable  lump  into  the  reader's 

throat.  .  .  .  There  are  passages  which  in  simple  pathos  remind  one 

vividly  of  Bret  Harte.  .  .  .  Taken  altogether  it  is  one  of  the  most 

entertaining  books  we  have  read  of  late,  and  will,  no  doubt,  be  as 

widely  appreciated  here  as  in  its  own  country." — London  Pall  Mall 

Budget  ( Gazette).^ 

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'HE   HOYDEN.     By  ''The    Duchess"    (Mrs. 

Hungerford) .     l2mo.     Paper,  50  cents.     Cloth,  ^i.oo. 

"  One  of  the  brightest  and  prettiest  of  this  writer's  books.  The 
plot  is  more  elaborate  than  is  usual,  and  is  developed  with  great 
cleverness.  The  humor  is  bright,  the  pathos  is  delicate,  and  the 
animated  style  of  the  narrative  makes  the  story  charming  reading. 
The  heroine  is  an  admirable  study,  and,  on  the  whole,  one  of  the 
most  thoughtful  and  careful  of  its  author's  creations." — Washington 
Tribune. 

Other  Stories  by  "  The  Duchess." 

A  Little  Irish  Girl.  Lady  Patty. 

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Phyllis.  A  Life's  Remorse. 

Molly  Pawn.  Mrs.  Geoffrey. 

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Faith  and  Unfaith.  Stories. 

Doris.  Rossmoyne. 

"O  Tender  Dolores."  A  Mental  Struggle. 

A  Maiden  all  Forlorn.  Lady  Valworth's  Diamonds. 

In  Durance  Vile.  Lady  Branksmere. 

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" '  The  Duchess'  has  well  deserved  the  title  of  being  one  of  the 
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the  airiest,  lightest,  and  brightest  imaginable,  full  of  wit,  spirit,  and 
gayety,but  contain,  nevertheless,  touches  of  the  most  exquisite  pathos. 
There  is  something  good  in  all  of  \\i^n\."— London  Academy. 

"There  is  no  author  in  ficdon  to  compare  with  'The  Duchess," 
and  each  of  her  novels  reaches  thousands  of  x^^A^n."— Boston  Globe. 


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'J^HE  WIDE,  WIDE  WORLD.     By  Elizabeth 

•*■        Wetherell.     Printed  from  new  plates,  and  illustrated  by 
eight  full-page  pictures  and  thirty  engravings  in  the  text 
from   drawings   by  Frederick  Dielman.      i2mo.      Cloth, 
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"A  friend  of  our  youth  comes  before  us  in  a  new  dress  in  the  shape 
of  Ellen  Montgomery,  the  gentle  and  pious  heroine  of  Susan  Warner's 
'  The  Wide,  Wide  World.'     How  many  girls  have  made  up  their 
minds  to  be  good  girls  because  Ellen  was.     Where  is  the  girl  that  has 
not  fallen  in  love  with  that  prig  John  ?    The  artist  has  made  no  attempt 
to  modernize  the  personages,  and  has  well  preserved  the  character- 
istics of  the  period  to  which  the  story  belongs." — New  York  Critic. 

/^UEECHY.    By  Elizabeth  Wetherell.    Printed 

^5^      from  new  plates  and  illustrated  with  thirty  engravings  from 
drawings  by  Frederick    Dielman.     Uniform  with  "  Wide, 
Wide  World."     i2mo.     Cloth,  ^i.oo.     Paper,  50  cents. 
"  Miss  Warner  is  not  so  unlike  some  novelists  of  greater  preten- 
sion ;  there  is  always,  for  the  readers  whom  she  desires  to  reach,  a 
fresh  interest,  a  direct  appeal,  which  makes  sure  that  she  will  reach 
them,  that  her  book  will  be  read,  and  that  it  will  make  an  impression. 
The  moral  and  religious  tone  of  her  stories  is  always  above  any 
reproach,"  and  now  comes  a  new  edition  to  supply  the   demand 
which  previous  editions  have  not  exhausted. 

JDATIENCE.      By   Anna   B.    Warner.      i2mo. 

•^         Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  It  is  a  pretty,  wholesome  story  of  country  ways  and  a  country 
home  in  the  days  of  stage-coaches,  spinning-wheels,  and  the  district 
school.    The  heroine  is  captivating,  and  the  rural  scenes  are  charming." 
Other  Stories  by  the  Misses  Warner. 
Daisy.     A  Sequel  to  Melbourne  House. 
Dollars  and  Cents.  Queechy. 

The  Hills  of  the  Shatemuc,        My  Brother's  Keeper. 
Say  and  Seal.  The  Wide,  Wide  World. 

I2mo.    Cloth.    ^1.50  per  volume.    Sets  of  eight  volumes,  uniform 
binding,  in  neat  box,  ^511.75. 

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pOUND    WANTING.     By  Mrs.   Alexander, 

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Cloth,  ^i.oo.    Paper,  50  cents. 

"  In  some  respects  '  Found  Wanting'  is  the  best  of  her  books,  for 
it  contains  Madame  Falk,  a  faithful  sketch  of  a  modern  journalist, 
carefully  finished  in  all  essentials.  One  always  feels  sure  in  taking 
up  a  story  by  this  writer  that  the  heroine  will  command  respect  and 
esteem,  and  this  is  something  to  be  thankful  for.  There  are  two 
women  in  '  Found  Wanting ;'  either  one  would  pose  acceptably  as 
heroine.     This  is  a  good  story." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 


NOVELS   BY   AM£LIE   RIVES. 

JDARBARA  BERING.     A  Sequel  to  "The  Quick 
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"  Miss  Rives  has  treated  the  plot  of  her  story  with  such  wonderful 
skill  that  the  characters  seem  not  the  creatures  of  a  novelist,  but 
creatures  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  living  and  moving,  thinking  and 
doing,  not  with  the  set  regularity  of  so  many  puppets,  but  with  the  life 
and  reality  of  beings  of  this  world,  moved  by  the  same  motives  and 
inspired  by  the  same  thoughts  as  ourselves.'' — Boston  jfournal. 

HTHE  QUICK  OR  THE  DEAD?    By  Am^lie 

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"  To  me  her  novels  have  been  of  the  greatest  interest  and  value : 
they  have  suggested  new  trains  of  thought ;  given  me  new  ideas ; 
opened  up  new  vistas — in  fact,  their  reading  has  been  not  only 
pleasurable  but  profitable." — Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

y^HE   WITNESS  OF  THE  SUN     By  Ame:lie 

-*        Rives.     i2mo.     Cloth,  ^i.oo. 

"That  Miss  Rives  has  been  thought  worthy  of  recognition  at  the 
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that  she  has  done  something  out  of  the  common,  and  we  will  preface 
whatever  we  have  to  write  by  saying  that  we  are  not  among  the  least 
of  her  admirers." — Chicago  Times. 


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OVELS  BY  MISS   CAREY. 


But  Men  Must  Work. 
Sir  Godfrey's  Granddaughters. 
Mary  St.  John. 
Heriot's  Choice. 
l2mo.     Paper,  50  cents.     Cloth,  ;Pi.oo. 
The  Search  for  Basil  Lyndhurst. 
Wooed  and  Married.  Barbara  Heathcote's  Trial. 

Nellie's  Memories.  For  Lilias. 

Queenie's  Whim.  Robert  Ord's  Atonement; 

Not  Like  Other  Girls.  Uncle  Max. 

Wee  Wifie.  Only  the  Governess. 

Bound  only  in  doth,  $1.00. 
"  Miss  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey  has  achieved  an  enviable  reputation 
as  a  writer  of  tales  of  a  restful  and  quiet  kind.  They  tell  pleasant 
stories  of  agreeable  people,  are  never  sensational,  and  have  a  genuine 
moral  purpose  and  helpful  tone,  without  being  aggressively  didactic 
or  distinctly  religious  in  character." — Boston  Herald. 

/I  DIPLOMATS  DIARY.    By  Julien  Gordon. 

■^^*      New  Edition  in  paper  covers.     l2mo.     50  cents. 

"  A  strong  story.  Realistic  enough  to  be  either  a  clever  work  of 
art  or  a  record  of  fact.  The  stage  upon  which  the  little  drama  is 
played,  the  people  who  pass  over  it,  the  customs  and  manners, — these 
are  accurately  taken  from  life,  and  by  one  who  has  occupied  a  position 
within  the  diplomatic  circle."— ASfW  York  Tribune. 

"  The  two  characters  that  figure  in  the  foreground  of  this  story 
are  alive ;  we  can  hear  them  speak ;  we  see  them  ;  we  should  recognize 
them  in  the  street.  That  is  the  right  artist's  touch,  and  he  who  pos- 
sesses it  can  at  will  make  us  com.mune  and  sympathize  with  other 
human  beings,  no  matter  what  their  social  status  or  what  the  stage- 
setting  of  their  lives." — New  York  Sun. 

Also  bound  in  cloth,  $I.oo. 

By  the  same  author  : 

A  Successful  Man. 

Vampires  and  Mademoiselle  RtsfeoA. 

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J-JIS    GREAT  SELF.     By  Marion  Harland, 

■*  ■'■       author  of  "  Alone,"  "  True  as  Steel,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth, 
$1.25. 

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swelled  in  hoops ;  when  the  men  were  autocrats  and  discussed 
Shakespeare  and  Mr.  Pope ;  a  time  that  even  Thackeray,  seeing  the 
picturesque  opportunities  which  it  afforded  the  novelist,  did  not  disdain 
to  deal  with,  and  which  will  always  be  treasured  by  the  lovers  of  the 
old  and  the  picturesque.  Some  of  the  author's  pages  have  about 
them  the  fragrance  that  scents  a  room  when  some  antique  cabinet 
has  been  opened,  and  there  steals  out  the  perfume  of  thyme  and 
lavender  placed  there  by  a  hand  that  has  long  ago  mouldered  into 
dust.' ' — Philadelphia  Record. 

yOHN  GRAY.  A  Kentucky  tale  of  the  olden 
time.  By  James  Lane  Allen,  author  of  "  Flute  and 
Violin,"  etc.  l2mo.  Cloth,  $1.00. 
"  The  unhappy  love  experience  which  forms  the  thread  of  the 
tale  is  but  a  chapter  out  of  the  life  of  almost  any  young  man.  And 
it  is  not  dramatically  told,  either.  Yet  there  is  an  intangible  some- 
thing in  the  book  that  now  and  then  touches  the  spring  of  tears  when 
the  reader  is  least  expecting  it.  The  central  character,  John  Gray,  is 
as  noble  a  specimen  of  young  manhood  as  any  idealist  could  create, 
yet  always  and  everywhere  he  is  entirely  natural  and  human." — 
Boston  yournal. 

'J^HE  MAN  OF  FEELING.     By  Henry  Mac- 

■*■        KENZiE.     Illustrated  by  William  CuBiTT  Cooke.     i6rao. 

Cloth,  uncut,  ;SSl.oo;  Large  paper,  buckram,  $3.00. 

"  While  other  works  are  extolled,  admired,  and  reviewed,  those  of 

Mackenzie  will  be  loved  and  wept  over.     They  cannot  be  out  of 

date  till  the  dreams  of  young  imagination  shall  vanish  and  the  deepest 

sympathies  of  love  and  hope  be  stilled  forever.     The  tender  pleasure 

which  '  The  Man  of  Feeling'  excites  is  wholly  without   alloy.     Its 

hero  is  the  most  beautiful  personification  of  gentleness,  patience,  and 

meek  sufferings  which  the  heart  can  conceive." — London  Saturday 

Review. 

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RS.    A.   L.    WISTER'S    TRANSLATIONS 
FROM  THE  German.     ;gi.oo  per  volume. 

Countess  Erika's  Apprenticeship.     By  Ossip  Schubin 

"  O  Thou,  My  Austria  1"     By  Ossip  Schubin 

Erlach  Court.     By  Ossip  Schubin 

The  Alpine  Fay.     By  E.  Werner 

The  Owl's  Nest.     By  E.  Marlitt 

Picked  Up  in  the  Streets.     By  H.  Schobert 

Saint  Michael.     By  E.  Werner 

Violetta.     By  Ursula  Zoge  von  Manteufel 

The  Eichhoffs.     By  Moritz  von  Reichenbach 

A  New  Race.     By  Gola  Raimund 

Castle  Hohenwald.     By  Adolph  Streckfuss 

Margarkthb.     By  E.  Juncker 

Too  Rich.     By  Adolph  Streckfuss 

A  Family  Feud.     By  Ludwig  Harder 

The  Green  Gate.     By  Ernst  Wichert 

Only  a  Girl.     By  Wiihelmine  von  Hillern 

Why  Did  He  Not  Die?     By  Ad.  von  Volckhauser 

The  Lady  with  the  Rubies.     By  E.  Marlitt 

Vain  Forebodings.     By  E.  Oswald 

A  Penniless  Girl.     By  W.  Heimburg 

Quicksands.     By  Adolph  Streckfuss 

Banned  and  Blessed.     By  E.  Werner 

A  Noble  Name.     By  Clare  von  Gliimer 

From  Hand  to  Hand.     By  Golo  Raimund 

Severa.     By  E.  Hartner 

Hulda.     By  Fanny  Lewald 

The  Bailiff's  Maid.     By  E.  Marlitt 

In  the  Schillingscourt.     By  E.  Marlitt 

Countess  Gisela.     By  E.  Marlitt 

At  the  Councillor's.     By  E.  Marlitt 

The  Second  Wife.     By  E.  Marlitt 

The  Old  Mam'sblle's  Secret.     By  E.  Marlitt 

Gold  Elsie.     By  E.  Marlitt 

The  Little  Moorland  Princess.    By  E.  Marlitt 

I2mo.     Attractively  bound  in  cloth.     Thirty-four  volumes  in 
twenty-three.     Sold  only  in  sets.    ;?30.oo  per  set. 

"  Mrs.  A.  L.  Wister,  through  her  many  translations  of  novels  from 
the  German,  has  established  a  reputation  of  the  highest  order  for 
hterary  judgment,  and  for  a  long  time  her  name  upon  the  title-page 
of  such  a  translation  has  been  a  suflScient  guarantee  to  the  lovers  of 
fiction  of  a  pure  and  elevating  character,  that  the  novel  would  be  a 
cherished  home  favorite.  This  faith  in  Mrs.  Wister  is  fully  justified 
by  the  fact  that  among  her  more  than  thirty  translations  that  have 
been  published  by  Lippincott's  there  has  not  been  a  single  disappoint- 
ment. And  to  the  exquisite  judgment  of  selection  is  to  be  added  the 
rare  excellence  of  her  translations,  which  has  commanded  the 
admiration  of  literary  and  linguistic  scholars." — Boston  Homeyournal. 


Philadelphia  :  J.  B.  LipPiNCOTT  Company,  715-717  Market  St. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY'S  FICTION. 

J  EAVES  FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  A   GOOD- 

J-—'    FOR-NoTHiNG.    Translated  by  Mrs.  A.  L.  Wister.     From 

the  German  of  Joseph  F.  von  Eichendorff.     Handsomely 

illustrated  by  photogravures  from  designs  by  Johann  and 

Kanoldt.     Printed  on  fine  plate  paper  throughout.     Small 

4to.     Bound  in  cloth,  gilt  top.     New  Edition,  ^2.50. 

"  The  autobiography  of  this  young  itinerant  German  philosopher 

is  delightful.     It  reads  like  a  mixture  of  Goethe  and  Daudet.     The 

romance  of  it  is  warm  and  colorful ;    the  humor  fine  and  delicate. 

One's  interest  in  the  narrative  is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  plentiful  and 

beautiful  process  illustrations." 

ATOVELS   OF  E.  MARLITT. 

•*■  ^  It  is  through  the  delightful  translations  of  Mrs.  A.  L.  Wister 
that  the  novels  of  this  celebrated  German  author  have  become  so 
popular  in  America.  They  have  now  been  profusely  illustrated  with 
characteristic  full-page  drawings  from  the  original  German  editions, 
and  include  the  following  volumes : 
Old  Mam'selle's  Secret.  Countess  Gisela. 
At  the  Councillor's.  In  the  Schillingscourt. 

The  Second  Wife.  The  Bailliff's  Maid. 

The  Lady  with  the  Rubies.  Gold  Elsie. 
The  Owl's  Nest.  The  Little  Moorland  Prin- 

cess. 
Price  in  sets,  10  volumes,  ;5Sio.oo. 
"No  one  who  has  read  'The  Old  Mam'selle's  Secret,"  with  its 
rapid  story,  its  melting  pathos,  and  its  strong  characterization,  needs 
to  be  told  of  the  singular  merits  of  the  writer.  That  was  universally 
recognized  as  one  of  the  most  absorbing,  powerful,  and  dramatic 
stories  which  had  come  across  the  ocean  in  many  a  day.  The  sams 
German  original  and  the  same  English  reproducer  have  given  us  the 
other  volumes." — Albany  yournal. 

"T^HE  HOL  COMBES.  A  Story  of  Virginia  Home- 
J-  Life.  By  Mary  Tucker  Magill.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 
"  A  picture  of  home-life  in  old  Virginia  before  the  war.  Diaries, 
letters,  dialogues,  conversation,  and  action  make  up  the  character  of 
the  story.  The  stranger  to  the  domestic  life  of  the  South  can  nowhere 
find  a  more  faithful  picture  of  its  former  qualities  and  surroundings." 


Philadelphia:  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  715-717  Market  St. 


?o 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
672 


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